/  "7  C 


THE 


GATES    OF    EDEN. 


A    STORY   OF  ENDEAVOUR. 


BT 

ANNIE    S.     SWAN, 

4T7THOB  OF   '  ALDKBSTDX,'   '  CAJILOWBIE,'   SIC.    KTO. 


'I  cannot  hide  that  some  have  striven, 
Achieving  calm,  to  whom  was  given 
The  joy  that  mixes  man  with  heaven : 

Who,  rowing  hard  against  the  stream, 
Saw  distant  gates  of  Eden  gleam, 
And  did  not  dream  it  was  a  dream.' 

— TENNYSON'S  Two  Va(tt*. 


CINCINNATI: 
CRANSTON    AND   STOWS. 

NEW  YORK: 
HUNT  AND   EATON. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAP. 
I.  THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH, 

II.  BEREAVED,   .  . 

III.  ALONE,      .  . 

IV.  TWO  SONS,   .  . 
V.  SYMPATHY,   .  . 

vi.  A  WOMAN'S  HEART,  . 

VI T.    CHANGE,           .  . 

VIII.    SPELLBOUND,  . 
IX.   AN   UNGRATEFUL  HEART, 

X  SANDY'S  WORD,  . 

XI.    TRIED, 

XII.    THE  MANSB  OF  ST.  GILES, 

XIII.  BEATRICE,        .  . 

XIV.  DESOLATE  AGE,  . 
XV.    RETRIBUTION,  . 

XVI.    SHADOWED  LIVES,  . 

XVII.   SWEET   MOMENTS,  . 

XVIII.    THE  WANDEIIER,  . 

XIX.    SAVED,               .  • 

XX.    RECOMPENSE,  • 

xxi.  ALL'S  WELL,  • 


FAOB 

9 

21 

82 

43 

56 

69 

82 

95 

108 

124 

137 

155 

169 

184 

200 

213 

229 

250 

267 

284 

302 


THE    GATES    OF    EDEN. 


AMERICAN    EDITION. 


THIS  book  is  published  in  America  under  special  con- 
tract with  its  Edinburgh  Publishers,  MESSRS.  OLIPHANT, 
ANDERSON  &  FERRIER. 

The  American  Publishers  have  not  changed  the  orig- 
inal orthography.  Our  neighbo(u)rs  across  the  ocean 
are  fond  of  the  diphthong  "ou,"  and  have  no  "z"  in 
their  "civilisation;"  but  this  story  is  none  the  less  in- 
teresting for  that. 


THE   GATES   OF   EDEK 


CHAPTER    L 


THE    SHADOW   OF   DEATH. 

'Then  fell  upon  the  house  a  sudden  gloom, 

A  shadow  on  these  features,  fair  and  thin ; 
And  softly,  from  that  hushed  and  darkened  room, 
Two  angels  issued  where  but  one  went  in.' 

LONGFELLOW. 

>'YE  think  she'll  pu'  through,  Jenny  ?' 

'  Eh,  I  dinna  ken !     Katie  Law  never 
had  muckle  strength  tae  come  an'  gang  on, 
and  she's  been  mair  dowie  this  while  nor  I 
likit  tae  see/  answered  Jenny  Scott ;  and  her 
kind  eyes  turned  with  a  mournful  interest  on 
the  neighbouring   cottage,  about  which   there 
was  a  solemn  hush  of  expectancy  that  summer  afternoon, 
for  there  were  great  issues  at  stake. 

'  John  Bethune  '11  miss  Katie,  if  she  be  ta'en  awa',' 
said  the  first  speaker,  settling  herself  against  the  lintel 
for  a  comfortable  gossip.  '  I've  often  said  tae  oor  Tarn 
that  he's  faur  ower  muckle  set  on  her.' 

9 


10  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

'  I  wadna  say  that,  Kirsfcy ;  she's  a  winsome,  bonnie 
cratur.  I've  bidden  aside  her  noo  for  twa  year  an'  mair, 
an'  I  never  saw  but  a  smile  on  her  face.' 

'  Aweel,  maybe  no ;  but  I  like  folk  that  can  girn 
whiles,  it  shows  they  hae  some  gumption,'  said  Kirsty 
Paterson.  'But  I'se  warrant  ye  John  got  the  wrang 
side  o'  her  whiles  as  weel's  ither  folk's  men.' 

'  I  dinna  think  that,  Kirsty,'  said  Jenny,  shaking  her 
head ;  '  she's  fell  fond  o'  him  tae.  Eh,  I  houp  she'll  get 
through,  for  his  sake  as  weel's  her  ain.  He's  a  by-ordinar' 
fine  man.  As  I  say  whiles  to  Sandy,  he  hasna  a  brither.' 

'Aweel,  gie  me  a  man  that  disna  set  hissel'  up  for 
better  nor  his  neebors/  maintained  Kirsty  stoutly. 
'  I'm  sure  it  wasna  at  Auchtermairnie  he  got  his  graun' 
ideas,  for  auld  John  Bethune's  a  canny  man,  an'  jist  like 
his  neebors.  He  kens  the  taste  o'  Jean  Brunton's  ale, 
I'll  warrant  ye,  though  John  in-by  pertends  that  he 
wadna  fyle  his  lips  wi't.  But  I  say,'  she  added,  lowering 
her  voice, '  wha's  in-by  forby  the  doctor ;  onybody  frae 
Auchtermairnie  ? ' 

Jenny  Scott  shook  her  head. 

'  Na,  it's  no  Shoosan  Bethune  that'll  come  to  Katie 
Law  in  her  trouble.  She's  never  been  i'  the  Star  that  I 
ken  o'  sin  Katie  cam'.' 

'  No,  she  has  not,'  said  Kirsty,  with  quiet  relish.  '  An' 
my  guid-brither's  sister's  man  i'  Kennoway  telt  me  that 
Shoosan  said  she  wad  never  darken  their  door  while  she 
leeved.  And  when  he  telt  me,  I  jist  says,  says  I,  whaur 
did  thae  Bethunes  get  their  pride  ?  Though  Katie  Law 
was  only  a  bit  servant  lassie,  was  she  no'  as  guid  as  them  ? 
Nae  doot  they  hae  been  in  Auchtermairnie  verra  near  as 
lang  as  the  Laird's  folk  hae  been  in  Ba'foor.  But  what 
aboot  that  ?  They're  nae  better  nor  wark  folk.  I  canna 
bide  sic  pride.' 


THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH.  11 

'  Wheest,  Kirst !  is  that  no'  a  bairn  greetin'  ? '  inter- 
rupted Jenny  in  a  warning,  excited  whisper ;  and  imme- 
diately they  strained  their  ears,  and  stretched  their  necks 
over  the  paling  towards  John  Bethune's  door.  But  the 
dead  stillness  there  remained  unbroken  by  the  slightest 
sound. 

'  D'ye  no'  ken  wha's  in  ?  Is  Nanny  Broon  doon  ? ' 
asked  Kirsty  eagerly. 

'  There's  naebody  that  I  ken  o'  but  Jean  Cam'll,' 
answered  Kirsty.  'Her  an'  Kate's  aye  been  thrang,  ye  ken.' 

'  Ou  ay,  faur  ower  thrang ;  I've  often  said  to  Tam 
there  wad  be  a  grand  turn-up  among  them.  Jean  '11  be 
up  in  the  buckle  the  day  then.  She  likes  brawly  to  be 
first  an'  foremost,'  said  Kirsty  Paterson,  for  she  had  an 
old  grudge  against  the  mistress  of  the  Knowe.  '  For  me, 
I  wad  think  shame  to  stap  my  nose  into  ither  folk's 
business  the  way  she  does.' 

'  John  gaed  for  her,  Kirsty,  for  I  saw  him  mysel'  just 
efter  denner-time.  Nannie  Broon's  maybe  in  tae,  for 
ocht  I  ken.' 

'  Wheesht,  wummin,  there's  somebody  at  the  sneck ! ' 

At  that  moment  the  two  worthies  were  rewarded  by 
the  sight  of  John  Bethune  himself  on  the  threshold  of 
his  own  door.  His  face  was  white  and  haggard,  the 
deep  eyes  under  the  rugged  brows  darkened  by  a  strange 
agony,  his  voice  when  he  spoke  scarcely  rose  above  a 
thick,  unsteady  whisper. 

'  Get  somebody  to  rin  to  Auchtermairnie,  will  ye  ? '  he 
asked,  apparently  unconscious  of  the  devouring  interest 
with  which  they  hung  upon  his  looks  and  words. 

'Ay;  the  skule's  oot,  I  hear  the  bairns,'  answered  Jenny 
at  once.  '  I'll  rin  for  my  Tammy,  an'  set  him  aff  at  aince. 
Hoo's  Katie  ? ' 

The  man  only  shook  his  head,  implored  her  to  lose  no 


12  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

time,  and  again  vanished  within.  The  neighbours  looked 
at  each  other  a  moment,  then  simultaneously  and  omi- 
nously shook  their  heads. 

'  I'll  awa'  for  Tammy/  said  Jenny  at  last,  and,  march- 
ing up  the  road,  she  collared  the  urchin  from  a  band 
gathered  round  the  window  of  the  shop,  greedily  eyeing 
the  latest  thing  in  '  sugar-bools,'  and  marched  him  down 
to  the  house,  instructing  him  concerning  his  errand  all 
the  while.  At  the  door  she  took  in  the  greasy  leather 
bag  which  contained  his  school-books,  and,  bringing  him 
instead  half  a  pease-bannock  spread  with  treacle,  bade 
him  be  off,  and  not  let  the  grass  grow  beneath  his  feet 
till  lie  got  to  Auchtermairnie.  Tammy  retired  at  a  brisk 
trot  along  the  dusty  road,  encumbered  by  neither  shoes 
nor  stockings,  the  wide  corduroy  breeches  of  his  mother's 
make  flapping  like  sails  about  his  sunbrowned  knees. 
After  having  satisfied  herself  that  Tammy  was  really  off, 
Jenny  Scott  returned  to  her  gossip,  and  the  pair  plunged 
once  more  into  the  luxury  of  speculation  to  which  Katie 
Law's  serious  illness  gave  rise.  The  whole  past,  present, 
and  future  of  the  Bethunes  was  discussed,  and  they  con- 
cluded that  if  Katie  died  and  left  a  living  bairn,  John's 
sister  Susan  would  just  need  to  return  to  her  old  post  of 
housekeeper  to  him,  and,  as  that  would  leave  the  old  man 
and  Peter  uncared  for  at  Auchtermairnie,  they  set  about 
finding  a  wife  for  the  latter,  and  so  their  talk  became 
a  very  involved  and  responsible  affair,  which  it  would 
not  be  easy  to  follow  out  to  any  sort  of  ending  what- 
soever. 

Meanwhile  Tammy,  having  got  beyond  his  mother's 
observation,  was  taking  his  time  over  his  mission.  The 
first  interruption  occurred  at  the  smithy,  which  was  a 
favourite  resort  of  his,  and  where  he  would  sit  for  hours 
watching  John  Henderson  at  his  work,  thinking  him  far 


THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH.  13 

more  to  be  envied  than  a  king.  To  Tammy  it  seemed  a 
beautiful  and  splendid  thing  to  have  nothing  to  do  but 
nail  shoes  on  to  horses'  feet,  and  blow  up  the  fire  till  it 
glowed  again,  the  latter  part  of  the  smith's  labours  being 
especially  to  be  desired  in  the  winter-time.  He  whisked 
round  the  corner,  and,  planting  himself  on  the  seat  of  a 
reaping-machine  awaiting  repair,  contentedly  munched 
his  treacle  bannock,  and  watched  the  smith's  operations 
with  devouring  interest.  They  were  especially  engrossing 
at  that  moment ;  for  one  of  Carriston  men  had  brought 
in  an  unbroken  filly  to  be  shod,  before  she  was  put  out 
to  the  grass.  She  was  a  dainty,  high-bred  thing,  intended 
for  Mr.  Lawson's  own  riding,  and  she  seemed  to  have  a 
curious  aversion  to  standing  still.  The  sweat  was  pouring 
over  the  smith's  face,  and  the  man  at  her  head  was  red 
with  his  exertion  of  trying  to  hold  her  in.  After  having 
watched  the  shoeing  process  to  a  close,  Tammy  leisurely 
descended  from  his  perch,  and  crossed  the  road  to  the  old 
quarry  to  look  whether  the  birds  were  hatched  in  a  nest 
under  a  whin  bush  known  only  to  himself.  Having 
satisfied  himself  on  that  point,  and  carefully  handled  the 
eggs,  he  bethought  himself  of  his  errand,  and  ran  across 
the  fields  like  a  hare,  plunging  through  hay  and  corn, 
knowing  his  supple  limbs  would  soon  carry  him  safely 
beyond  observation  or  chase.  It  was  after  five  o'clock, 
and  Susan  Bethune  was  sitting  down  to  her  afternoon 
cup  of  tea,  when  he  arrived  breathless  at  the  door  of 
Auchtermairnie, — a  cosy  farm-steading  standing  a  little 
off  the  road,  within  half  a  mile  of  Kennoway. 

'  I'm  no'  for  naething  the  day ;  awa'  ye  go,'  she  called 
out  in  answer  to  the  knock,  but  started  to  her  feet  when 
the  urchin  answered  back  shrilly, — 

'  Ye're  to  come  awa'  to  the  Star  as  fast's  ye  like,  my 
mither  says.  Katie  Law's  maist  awfu'  ill.' 


14  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

'  Oh,  it's  you,  Tammy  Scott ! '  said  Susan  Bethune  un- 
graciously, when  she  came  out  to  the  door.  '  Wha  set 
ye  wi'  that  message  then  ? ' 

'My  mither  set  me.  I  think  John  Bethune  bade 
her,'  answered  Tammy.  '  The  doctor's  there,  because 
Jock  Philp  was  haudin'  his  pownie,  an'  a'  the  wives  is 
oot,  so  she  maun  be  gey  ill.' 

'"Weel  a  weel,  tell  them  I'll  come  wast  when  I'm 
ready,'  said  Susan  Bethune  with  a  peculiar  compression 
of  her  lips.  '  Here,  see,  there's  a  piece  tae  ye,  an'  see  ye 
dinna  stane  the  jeuks  as  ye  gang  by.' 

Tammy  accepted  the  burnt  end  of  oatcake  offered  to 
him  in  rather  a  gingerly  fashion,  and  directly  he  got  past 
the  house  he  laid  it  down  on  the  garden  dyke,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  look  out  for  the  ducks,  which  had  never  been 
in  his  thoughts  till  Miss  Bethune  herself  mentioned 
them.  In  a  few  minutes  there  was  an  unusual  splash- 
ing in  the  mill-dam,  and  the  air  filled  with  a  chorus  of 
quacking,  while  Tammy,  having  had  his  sport,  and  fear- 
ing the  consequences,  ran  off  home  as  fast  as  his  bare 
and  nimble  feet  could  carry  him.  Susan  Bethune,  how- 
ever, paid  no  attention  to  the  noise  proceeding  from  the 
mill-pond,  her  mind  being  completely  absorbed  by  the 
news  the  boy  had  brought.  It  had  spoiled  her  tea,  and 
after  taking  another  mouthful  she  poured  it  out,  and  put 
the  things  back  in  the  dresser.  Then  she  set  on  the  pot 
for  the  six  o'clock  porridge,  and  went  out  of  doors  in 
search  of  her  father.  They  were  all  hoeing  in  the  potato 
field,  the  old  man  keeping  up  his  drill  with  the  rest ; 
but  when  he  saw  her  waving  at  the  gate  he  put  down 
his  hoe  and  crossed  over  to  speak  to  her;  as  he  did  so 
he  wiped  the  sweat  from  his  brow,  and  stretched 
himself  with  a  sigh.  He  was  very  weary,  for  he  was 
a  bent  old  man,  whose  days  of  toil  ought  to  have 


THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH.  15 

been  past.  But  so  long  as  Peter  Bethune,  who  was 
now  absolutely  master  in  Auchtermairnie,  had  his 
way,  there  would  not  be  much  resting  for  any  within 
its  walls. 

'  That's  a  laddie  frae  the  Star,  faither,'  said  Susan, 
directly  he  was  within  hearing.  'John's  wife's  doon, 
an'  they're  seekin'  me  to  come  wast.' 

Nothing  could  be  more  unreadable  than  her  expression 
of  face  as  she  uttered  these  words ;  it  would  have  been 
impossible  to  tell  whether  she  was  well  or  ill  pleased  at 
the  summons. 

'  Ye'll  gang  then,  Shoosan  ?  '•  said  the  old  man  eagerly. 
'  The  puir  lassie  has  nane  o'  her  ain, — ye'll  gang  to  the 
Star  surely  noo  ? ' 

'  I  dinna  ken,'  said  Susan,  and  there  was  evidently  a 
hard  struggle  going  on  in  her  mind.  '  They  maun  learn 
that  a'body's  no'  aye  at  their  beck  an'  bow.  John  '11 
find  his  error  noo,  I'm  thinking,  in  mairryin'  a  cratur  wi' 
nae  folk/ 

'  Wha's  laddie  was't,  an'  what  did  he  say  ? ' 
'  It  was  that  wee  deil,  Tammy  Scott.     It's  maybe  a'  a 
lee,  ye  ken ;  but  he  said  the  doctor  was  there,  an'  of 
coorse  a'  the  clashin'  wives  is  oot.' 

'  Then  ye  should  gang  awa'  the  noo,  Shoosan,'  said  the 
old  man  anxiously ;  '  Pete  '11  let  me  lowse,  an'  I'll  yoke 
Donal'  in  the  milk-cairt  for  ye.' 

'  'Deed  no ;  I'm  no'  gaun  ridin'  through  the  Star  for 
them  or  ony  ither  body.  I'll  awa'  in,  an'  mak'  the  par- 
ritch.  It's  near  six  onyway,  an'  I'll  hae  my  goon  an' 
bannet  on  gin  ye  come  in,'  said  Susan.  '  Tell  Geordie, 
wull  ye,  to  bid  Else  come  down  to  the  byre  at  half  aicht, 
for  I'll  no'  be  hame.' 

So  saying,  Susan  Bethune  nodded  her  head  once  or 
twice,  and  stalked  away  back  to  the  house. 


16  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

'  What  was  Shoosan  seekin'  ? '  asked  Peter,  stepping 
from  behind  the  workers  to  speak  to  his  father. 

'  Katie's  doon,  an'  they're  for  her  wast,  but  she'll  no 
gang  or  it  comes  up  her  am  back/  said  the  old  man, 
and  he  looked  across  the  flat  fields  to  the  clustering  red 
roofs  of  the  little  hamlet,  where  his  favourite  son  had 
his  home,  and  there  was  a  wistfulness  in  his  eye  which 
told  that  all  his  sympathies  were  there. 

'  She's  quite  richt.  There's  naething  like  bein'  inde- 
pendent wi'  folk,'  said  Peter  with  a  coarse  laugh.  '  John 
should  hae  been  mair  canty  wi'  Shoosan  when  he  had  her. 
Ye  canna  blame  her  noo.' 

'  He  never  did  ocht  till  her.  It  wasna  a  deidly  sin  to 
tak'  a  wife,'  said  the  old  man  mildly. 

'  Shoosan  thocht  it,  though,'  laughed  Pete  again. 
'  Come  on,  then ;  we  can  gang  up  an'  doon  the  dreel  again 
afore  six.' 

A  rough,  uncouth,  ill-conditioned  fellow  was  Peter 
Bethune,  and  his  blustering,  domineering  disposition  was 
quite  in  keeping  with  his  outward  appearance.  He  had 
a  tall,  slack,  ill-knit  figure,  and  a  big  head  adorned  by  a 
shock  of  tawny  hair,  already  thickly  mixed  with  grey. 
A  heavy  beard  concealed  the  lower  part  of  his  face,  but 
there  was  nothing  attractive  in  what  was  visible.  The 
eyes  peering  out  from  under  the  shaggy  brows  were  of  a 
steely  blue  colour,  and  his  glance,  though  as  keen  as  that 
of  a  fox,  seemed  restless  and  shifting,  and  was  never  a 
moment  still.  Susan  Bethune  was  not  greatly  beloved, 
but  everybody  agreed  that  she  was  far  preferable  to  her 
eldest  brother.  She  had  borne  a  bitter  disappointment 
in  her  youth,  which,  coupled  with  her  way  of  life,  had 
somewhat  soured  her  disposition,  which  was  naturally 
kind,  and  even  affectionate.  She  had  been  in  a  manner 
twice  disappointed,  for,  when  her  lover  had  proved  false, 


THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH.  IT 

she  had  turned  with  all  her  affection  to  her  brother 
John  ;  and  he  also  had  failed  her, — at  least  he  had  taken 
a  wife,  for  which  Susan  had  said  she  would  never  forgive 
him.  Old  John  Bethune  had  but  two  sons,  and  John 
was  the  younger.  There  was  little  between  them  in 
years,  but  the  disparity  in  other  respects  was  complete 
and  striking.  Peter  had  always  been  a  lout,  void  of 
feeling,  and  inclined  to  bully  anything  weaker  than 
himself.  He  was  greedy,  as  well  as  masterful,  and  as 
the  brothers  grew  up  together,  John  found  it  impossible 
to  support  existence  at  Auchtermairnie,  though  there  was 
work  to  keep  both  employed.  He  was  by  nature  quiet, 
gentle,  and  reserved,  fond  of  books,  and  even  of  the 
refinements  of  life,  for  all  of  which  Peter  had  the  utmost 
contempt.  'Wark  an'  siller'  was  Peter's  motto;  and 
after  a  time  things  came  to  such  a  crisis  that  John  left 
the  farm  and  went  to  the  Star  to  live.  His  father 
bought  him  a  croft,  and  after  a  little  time  John  quite 
fell  in  with  the  ways  of  the  village,  and  got  a  loom 
fitted  up  in  the  ben-end,  for  hand-loom  weaving  was  at 
that  time  the  staple  industry  of  the  place,  and  the 
industrious  made  it  pay  well  Susan  went  with  John 
as  his  housekeeper,  and  never  had  man  a  more  faithful, 
self-denying  servant  Nothing  in  the  shape  of  work 
came  amiss  to  Susan  Bethune.  She  could  just  as  easily 
hoe  a  breadth  of  potatoes,  or  gather  rack  behind  the 
plough,  as  she  could  sit  by  the  fireside  and  wind  the 
pirns  for  her  brother's  loom.  She  was  a  capable,  provi- 
dent housekeeper  indeed,  but  her  effort  ended  there. 
No  neighbour  was  ever  allowed  to  cross  the  threshold 
of  the  cotttage ;  work,  work,  work  was  Susan  Bethune's 
creed,  and  if  John  ventured  to  step  into  a  neighbour's 
house  for  an  hour's  friendly  chat,  she  would  not  speak 
to  him  for  days.  She  was  verily  an  Ishmaelite.  whose 

2 


18  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

hand  was  against  every  man  except  her  brother  John, 
whom  she  strove  to  make  as  comfortable  as  she  could. 

In  his  leisure  time  John  Bethune  carefully  and  metho- 
dically perused  the  productions  of  the  master  minds 
among  poets,  theologians,  and  philosophers.  Novels  were 
at  that  day  unknown  in  Star,  and  if  one  did  happen  to 
be  handed  from  fireside  to  fireside,  though  it  might  be 
enjoyed  in  secret,  it  was  outwardly  condemned  as  a 
parcel  '  o'  unholy  lees.'  Then,  when  busy  with  his  loom 
in  'the  shop,'  as  the  ben-end  was  always  termed,  he 
thought  over  his  reading,  carefully  digesting  and  analyz- 
ing it  all,  till  his  mind  became  a  well-filled  storehouse  of 
knowledge  such  as  money  could  neither  buy  nor  take 
away.  For  ten  years  this  monotonous,  uneventful,  but 
not  unprofitable  way  of  life  went  on  for  the  brother  and 
sister,  until  one  summer-time  a  mighty  and  unlooked-for 
change  took  place.  John  Bethune  was  an  elder  in  the 
parish  kirk  at  Kennoway,  and  in  his  »egular  attendance 
at  that  place  of  worship  he  fell  in  occasionally  by  the 
way  with  a  bright-eyed  servant  lassie  from  Newtonhall, 
whose  winning  way  and  modest  behaviour,  as  well  as  her 
intelligent  and  observing  mind,  interested  him  not  a  little. 
In  outward  appearance  she  was  as  unlike  him  as  could 
well  be  imagined,  and  the  disparity  in  years  was  not 
greater  than  the  wide  contrast  between  them.  She  was  an 
orphan  whom  the  ladies  had  procured  from  some  institu- 
tion, and  of  her  antecedents  or  parentage  nothing  was 
known.  That  in  itself  was  sufficient  reason  to  Susan 
Bethune  why  she  should  not  be  named  in  the  same 
breath  with  John,  for  if  the  Bethunes  were  poor  they 
had  aye  been  respectable,  and  could  count  their  forbears 
back  to  covenanting  times,  when  a  Bethune  of  Auchter- 
mairnie  had  followed  brave  Hackstoun  of  Eathillet  through 
every  vicissitude  of  his  stormy  career.  John  Bethune's 


THE  SHADOW  OF  DEATH.  19 

wooing  was  of  a  very  matter-of-fact,  sensible  sort.  After 
having  well  considered  the  thing  in  his  own  mind,  he  asked 
Katie  Law  a  plain,  straightforward  question,  and,  having 
received  an  honest,  maidenly  answer,  he  quietly  and  without 
ado  informed  Susan  that,  as  he  was  going  to  be  married, 
it  would  be  better  for  her  to  go  home  to  Auchtermairnie, 
especially  as  their  mother  was  failing,  and  would  be  the 
better  of  her  help.  The  time  had  gone  for  Susan 
Bethune  to  storm  or  flyte,  though  in  youth  her  tongue 
had  been  the  talk  of  the  country  side.  She  made  no 
remark,  nor  asked  any  questions  whatsoever,  but  there 
and  then  packed  up  her  gear,  and  went  home  to  the 
farm.  And  for  many  a  long  day  she  never  suffered  her 
eyes  to  light  on  her  brother  John  and  his  bonnie  young 
wife  in  Kennoway  kirk,  nor  did  she  ever  darken  their 
door.  On  the  solitary  occasion  when  John,  on  his  father's 
invitation,  brought  Katie  into  Auchtermairnie  at  tea-time 
on  a  Sabbath  afternoon,  Susan  retired  out  to  the  stack- 
yard, and  remained  there  till  they  went  away.  Her 
proceedings  did  not  in  the  least  trouble  John,  who  had 
done  his  duty  by  her  over  and  above,  but  it  weighed  on 
Katie's  gentle  heart,  who,  poor  lassie,  was  keenly  sensitive 
to  the  least  slight  cast  upon  her,  or  upon  her  husband 
for  her  sake.  She  was  very  happy  with  him,  for  she 
truly  loved  him,  and  for  two  bright  years  their  cottage 
was  the  abode  of  love  and  peace  ;  and  those  who  were 
privileged  to  sit  down  by  their  ingle-neuk  went  away 
saying  it  was  good  to  be  there.  Of  these  old  sores  Susan 
Bethune  was  thinking  as  she  stalked  in  her  upright 
fashion  along  the  green  highway  to  the  Star.  She  was 
not  a  comely  person  to  look  at,  although  in  youth  she 
had  been  a  handsome  lass  whom  many  admired.  But 
now  her  face  was  thin  and  worn,  as  if  a  secret  sorrow 
had  eaten  into  her  heart,  her  brow  had  many  wrinkles 


20  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

on  it,  and  her  resolute  mouth  many  a  hard  line  and  un- 
promising curve.  Then  her  scanty  hair  was  quite  grey, 
and  was  dressed  so  plainly  and  severely  that  it  did  not 
in  any  way  soften  her  rather  prominent  features.  Her 
attire  was  a  thrifty  gingham  of  a  very  large  pattern,  an 
ample  plaid,  and  a  plain,  Quaker-like  brown  bonnet.  It 
was  just  about  half-past  six  when  she  passed  by  the 
smithy,  and  of  course  there  had  to  be  half-a-dozen 
ploughmen  to  gape  at  her,  and  run  in  to  tell  the  smith 
that  there  was  Susan  Bethune  actually  on  the  way  to  her 
brother's.  Looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left, 
Susan  Bethune  walked  through  the  village  to  her  brother's 
door.  There  was  a  group  of  women  still  in  Jenny 
Scott's  garden,  which  considerably  augmented  as  word 
was  passed  from  door  to  door  that  Susan  Bethune  was  in 
sight.  She  did  not  even  look  at  them,  nor  pause  to  ask 
a  single  question,  but  lifted  the  sneck  of  her  old  home 
and  walked  in.  At  the  kitchen  door  Mrs.  Campbell,  the 
motherly  mistress  of  the  Knowe,  met  her  with  finger 
uplifted  in  solemn  warning. 

Susan  pushed  her  impatiently  aside  and  stalked  over 
to  the  bed. 

Oh,  could  that  white  wasted  face,  with  the  deep  pain- 
lines  upon  it,  be  the  winsome  face  of  Katie  Law,  which 
had  been  wont  to  look  so  bright  and  bonnie,  like  a  picture 
framed  by  the  white  lappets  of  her  bridal  bonnet  ?  At 
the  foot  of  the  bed  sat  John,  with  his  head  bowed  down 
upon  his  hands. 

'  Katie  Law's  no'  deid,  is  she,  Jean  Cam'll  ? '  asked 
Susan  Bethune  quickly. 

'Ay,  puir  lassie,'  said  the  kind  soul  with  eyes  full  of 
tears.  '  She  has  gotten  through  wi't  at  last.' 


CHAPTER  IL 


BEREAVED. 

Ah,  the  dead,  the  un  forgot  I 

From  their  solemn  homes  of  thought, 

Or  in  love  or  sad  rebuke, 

Back  upon  the  living  look.' 

WHITTIEK. 

whaur's  the  bairn  ? '  asked  Susan  in  a  loud 
whisper,  her  expression  one  of  blank  con- 
sternation.    For  answer  the  mistress  of  the 
Knowe  opened  the  door  of  the  little  back 
room  which  had  been  Susan's  own  sleeping 
chamber  in  days  gone  by,  and  motioned  her 
to  enter.     And  there  by  the  little  low  hearth 
sat  Nannie  Brown,  with  two  tiny  morsels  of    humanity 
lying  on  her  knee, 

'  Mercy  me !  is  there  twa  ? '  asked  Susan  so  shrilly 
that  thoughtful  Jean  Campbell  instantly  shut  the  door 
between,  so  that  the  desolate  mourner  in  the  kitchen 
might  not  be  disturbed. 

'  Ay,  wee  twin  laddies,  puir  things ! '  said  the  large- 
hearted  woman,  her  eyes  bent  in  an  infinite  compassion 

upon  the  motherless  infants. 

11 


22  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

Very  curious  was  it  to  see  the  expression  on  Susan 
Bethune's  face  as  she  bent  over  Nannie  Brown,  and 
looked  earnestly  at  the  bairns.  If  there  yet  remained 
any  soft  spot  in  her  heart,  surely  the  sight  of  the  twins 
in  their  helplessness  might  have  touched  it. 

'  It's  an  unco  handfu'  for  John,  puir  fellow,'  she  said 
in  a  short,  quick  way.  'Ae  wean  wadna  hae  been  sae 
bad  ;  but  twa  ! ' 

'  Ay,  puir  man ;  but  the  bairns  '11  be  a  comfort  tae  him, 
I  dinna  doot.  The  verra  care  they'll  be  till  him  will  gar 
him  bestir  himsel'.  But,  as  ye  say,  it's  a  gey  handfu'  for 
a  weedy  man,  but  we'll  just  a'  need  to  help  to  rear  Katie's 
bairns.'  Saying  which,  honest  Jean  Campbell  -looked 
straight  and  keen  into  the  hard, unsympathetic  face  of  Susan 
Bethune,  and  then  turned  away  with  a  little  sigh.  There 
was  not  much  promise  of  sympathy  or  help  written  there. 

'We'll  need  tae  gang  back  to  Katie  noo,  Shoosan,'  she 
eaid  significantly. 

'  Hae  ye  gotten  a'thing  ready  ?  Had  I  kent  o'  this  I 
could  hae  brocht  things  frae  Auchtermairnie.' 

'  A'thing's  in  the  kist  in  the  kitchen ;  Katie  showed 
them  to  me  yestreen,  when  I  lookit  in  to  see  how  the 
lassie  was  keepin'  up  her  heart.  Puir  wifie,  I  leuch  at 
her,  but  there  was  a  solemn  and  earnest  look  in  her  e'e 
I  didna  like,'  said  Jean  Campbell  sorrowfully.  '  There's 
a  lang  bedgoon  an'  a  cap  the  Misses  gied  her,  a'  sewed 
by  their  ain  hands ;  but  maybe  ye  hae  seen  them  ? ' 

'  Hoo  could  I  see  them  ?  Brawly  ye  ken,  Jean  Cam'll, 
that  I  hae  never  been  in  John's  hoose  sin'  his  waddin',' 
answered  Susan  Bethune  harshly,  for  her  conscience  was 
at  work  remorselessly  reproaching  her  for  the  part  she 
had  acted  towards  her  brother's  unoffending  wife.  She 
could  have  wished  now  that  she  had  been  less  hard ;  but 
what  avails  such  regret  when  it  comes  too  late  ?  Well 


BEREAVED.  23 

for  us  if  we  stifle  not  our  finer  impulses  while  opportunity 
is  given  for  their  fulfilment.  From  the  grave  none  come 
back  to  receive  atonement  from  the  living. 

Gently  Jean  Campbell  opened  the  door  once  more,  and 
re-entered  the  kitchen.  All  was  as  they  had  left  it,  the 
pale,  sweet,  still  face  on  the  pillow,  and  the  bent  figure 
of  the  man  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  sitting  so  motionless 
that  it  might  have  been  thought  he  too  had  bidden 
farewell  to  life. 

'John,  my  man/  said  the  tremulous,  kind  voice  of 
Jean  Campbell,  while  Susan  stood  awkwardly  by,  seeing 
nothing  but  the  dead  face  of  Katie  Law,  which  seemed 
to  wear  for  her  a  look  of  unutterable  reproach.  'John, 
my  man,'  repeated  Jean  Campbell,  when  her  first  words 
made  no  impression,  'ye'll  hae  to  gang  into  the  ither 
end  till  we  get  things  dune.  Shoosan's  here,  John, 
anxious  to  dae  her  best  to  help  ye  in  yer  trouble.' 

A  deep  and  shuddering  sigh  shook  the  stalwart  frame, 
and  he  rose  heavily  to  his  feet.  He  looked  at  his  sister, 
who,  poor  awkward  soul,  so  out  of  place  in  the  house  of 
sorrow,  would  have  uttered  her  sympathy  had  she  known 
how,  then  walked  away  to  the  door,  took  his  hat  from  its 
accustomed  place,  and  went  out  into  the  still  brightness 
of  the  summer  night.  The  little  knot  of  gossiping  wives, 
oblivious  of  everything  except  this  topic  of  absorbing 
interest,  hushed  their  whispering  voices  and  fell  apart  a 
little  at  sight  of  John  Bethune.  So  far  as  he  was  con- 
cerned, they  might  have  continued  their  talk,  for  he  saw 
them  not.  For  the  time  being  John  Bethune  was 
possessed  by  one  thought,  so  deep  and  awful  that  it  was 
more  than  he  could  bear.  The  wife  whom  he  had  loved, 
nay,  whom  he  had  worshipped  with  all  the  rugged 
strength  of  his  deep,  intense  nature,  lay  dead  in  the  house. 
That  fact,  like  a  great  black  despairing  cloud,  shut  out 


24  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

all  else  from  the  man's  mind.  He  walked  slowly  up  the 
middle  of  the  road  till  he  reached  the  schoolhouse,  and 
when  the  schoolmaster,  busy  among  his  flowers,  saw 
him,  he  leaned  over  the  low  wall  and  asked  for  Mrs. 
Bethune. 

'  Katie's  deid,  Maister,'  John  answered,  and  passed  on 
without  paying  any  attention  to  what  the  schoolmaster 
was  saying.  Mr.  Farquhar  watched  him  turn  down  the 
footpath  to  the  moss,  and  when  a  few  minutes  later  he 
had  occasion  to  go  to  the  back  of  the  house  for  his  spade 
he  saw  a  solitary  figure  sadly  wending  its  way  through 
the  green  heather  tops,  in  a  slow,  aimless  fashion.  Then 
a  look  of  deep  compassion  came  upon  the  master's  face ; 
he  knew  by  experience  how  awful  is  that  first  lone, 
silent  battle  with  the  sorrow  of  a  life.  John  Bethune 
was  alone  indeed  in  the  solitude  of  the  moss,  for  the 
peat-workers  were  all  away  home,  and  there  stood  the 
carts,  laden  and  covered,  ready  to  go  off  in  the  early 
morning  to  Cupar.  For  a  time  he  wandered  up  and 
down  the  brown,  uneven  ridges,  even  looked  curiously  at 
the  place  where  the  folks  had  been  casting  peats  that 
very  day,  and  then,  coming  all  at  once  to  a  fresh,  green 
hillock  covered  with  soft  turf  and  budding  heather,  he 
sat  down  and  nerved  himself  to  face  manfully  his 
bereavement — to  look  a  little  ahead  into  life  without 
Katie.  Oh,  but  it  was  dreary  work  !  and  as  he  thought 
of  the  empty,  empty  house,  great  heavy  tears  gathered 
in  his  eyes,  and  seemed  to  burn  themselves  into  channels 
on  his  cheeks.  They  were  wrung  from  the  very  depths 
of  a  heart  not  touched  by  every  passing  emotion  ;  they 
were  such  tears  as  men  shed  only  once  or  twice  in  a  life- 
time. It  was  curious,  and  yet  perhaps  not  to  be 
wondered  at,  that  John  Bethune  had  forgotten  all  about 
the  bairns, — the  helpless  little  laddies  who  would  never 


BEREAVED.  25 

know  a  mother's  care.  His  thoughts  would  not  go 
frrward  at  his  bidding ;  they  only  lingered  regretfully 
with  the  past,  mocking  him  almost  with  its  precious 
memories,  with  the  sweetness  of  its  happy,  tranquil  days. 
Oh,  these  two  brief,  bright  years  had  been  like  a  breath 
of  heaven  to  him !  no  man  had  been  more  blessed,  more 
utterly  content  than  he !  Then  something  of  the  stern 
old  creed  his  grandmother  had  taught  him  rose  up  before 
him,  reminding  him  how  he  had  sinned  and  come  short. 
He  had  not  crucified  the  flesh,  nor  kept  himself  from 
idols ;  for  had  not  Katie  been  his  idol,  whom  he  had 
loved  and  worshipped  with  a  fervour  which  condemned 
him  now  ?  Ah,  it  is  so  much  easier  to  take  to  our 
hearts  a  living,  breathing  presence  that  can  give  love  for 
love,  than  to  yearn  for  the  infinite  and  unknown,  that 
can  only  be  approached  by  faith.  It  seems  to  me  that 
faith  is  not  a  natural  impulse  to  humanity,  but  rather  a 
plant  cultivated  in  the  soil  of  sorrow  and  disappointment. 
By  and  by  there  stole  into  John  Bethune's  heart  a  sweeter 
assurance  than  that  old  stern  creed ;  and  these  words 
whispered  themselves  to  him  in  accents  of  healing: 
'  Love  one  another,  as  I  have  loved  you.'  With  that 
deep  peace  and  comforting  thought  there  came  to  him  also, 
with  a  sudden  sweetness,  a  consciousness  of  the  exceeding 
beauty  and  fulness  which  encompassed  him, — that  sunset 
beauty  which  Katie  had  loved  to  look  upon  in  the  long 
summer  evenings  from  their  cottage  door.  Their  common 
love  for  the  sights  and  sounds  of  nature  had  been  a  very 
sweet  bond  between  them.  The  sun  had  set  over  the 
Lomond  Hill,  and  the  sweet  gloaming  was  creeping  over 
the  earth,  without  quenching  too  suddenly  the  lingering 
glory  still  streaming  from  the  radiant  west.  The  sky 
was  a  wonder  of  loveliness,  in  its  thousand  varying  hues, 
soft,  indescribable,  inimitable  tints  mingling  with  clear 

3 


26  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

azure  and  brilliant  carmine  shot  with  bars  of  gold. 
Eight  above  the  little  cottage,  where  kind  hands  were 
preparing  Katie  for  her  last  sleep,  the  moon  hung  clear 
and  bright,  only  waiting  for  the.  darkness  to  show  her 
wondrous  power.  The  pleasant  stillness  was  only  broken 
by  the  cheery  chirp  of  the  corn-craik,  or  by  the  lowing 
of  the  cows  in  Broomfield  Park  growing  impatient  for 
the  sweet  bunch  of  clover  awaiting  them  in  the  byre  at 
milking-time.  The  fair  world  was  full  of  promise  ;  haw- 
thorn-tree and  sweet-brier  bush  were  bursting  into  bloom, 
the  graceful  ferns  were  uncurling  their  delicate  fronds  in 
every  shady  nook,  and  in  another  month  the  moss  would 
be  a  blaze  of  purple  heather  bells.  John  Bethune 
wondered  at  the  rapid  progress  everything  had  made 
since  he  had  been  down  the  moss  with  Katie  a  month 
ago  on  a  Sabbath  evening. 

A  quick  sob  broke  from  his  lips  as  the  thought  came 
home  sharply  that  never  again  should  he  walk  with 
Katie  here  or  anywhere,  till  perchance  they  might 
together  pace  the  golden  streets  of  that  happier  home  to 
which  God  had  already  taken  her. 

He  rose  up  to  his  feet,  uplifted  his  eyes  to  the  sky 
with  a  passionate,  yearning  gaze,  as  if  they  would  fain 
penetrate  its  mysteries,  and  find  Katie  beyond. 

As  he  turned  to  go,  there  came  stealing  across  the 
green  fields  the  note  of  the  cuckoo,  calling  sweetly  and 
clearly  to  his  mate :  another  thing  to  bring  back  memo- 
ries of  Katie,  for  only  yesterday  she  had  said  the  cuckoo 
was  late  this  year,  and  wondered  whether  he  had  quitted 
his  haunt  in  the  Falkland  Wood.  Ah,  well !  he  had 
many  sweet  memories  to  live  upon,  and  the  hope  that  was 
in  him  would  give  strength  for  each  day, — and  what 
need  we  more  ? 

When    John    Bethune    once  more    entered    his    own 


BEREAVED.  27 

dwelling,  there  was  nobody  in  the  kitchen,  and  he  was 
glad  of  it ;  for  he  could  look  unobserved  at  the  sweet 
face  of  the  silent  sleeper  on  the  bed ;  and  though  the 
murmuring  sound  of  voices  in  the  inner  room  told  that 
the  house  was  not  deserted,  he  entered  so  softly  that 
they  did  not  hear  him.  Very  softly,  and  with  reverent 
hand,  did  John  Bethune  lift  the  pure  covering  from  his 
wife's  face,  and  let  his  eyes  dwell  upon  it.  Even  a  little 
time  had  wrought  a  change  there,  for  all  the  pain-lines 
were  gone,  and  there  had  even  crept  back  to  the  girlish 
cheek  a  sweet  hint  of  the  bloom  of  yore.  So  natural 
and  life-like  did  she  look,  indeed,  that  it  was  hard  to 
believe  that  death  had  claimed  the  mortal  part  of  Katie 
Law  for  ever.  Everything  about  her  was  spotlessly 
white  and  of  the  finest  quality, — gifts  from  the  kind 
ladies  who  bad  been  very  loth  indeed  to  part  with  her. 
Little  did  they  dream  how  soon,  and  in  what  way,  their 
handiwork  was  to  be  used.  On  the  little  deal  table  at 
the  side  of  t^e  bed,  Jean  Campbell,  with  one  of  these 
finer  touches  so  characteristic  of  her,  had  spread  a  pure 
linen  cloth,  and  laid  Katie's  Bible  on  it,  side  by  side 
with  a  little  bunch  of  lily-of-the- valley,  which  grew  so 
plentifully  in  a  shady  nook  behind  the  rain-water  barrel 
at  the  back  of  the  house.  These  little  things  touched 
and  soothed  John  Bethune,  and  the  look  of  peace 
deepened  on  his  face.  With  a  gentle  sigh,  he  let  the 
covering  fall  lightly  over  the  face  again  ;  it  did  not  occur 
to  him  to  kiss  or  touch  the  dead.  The  Katie  he  had  loved 
was  not  lying  there,  but  was  even  now  mingling  with  the 
great  company  of  the  redeemed.  So,  lifting  Katie's  Bible, 
he  sat  down  by  the  hearth,  and  opened  it  at  the  Eevela- 
tion.  And  there  Susan  found  him,  when  she  came  out 
presently  to  get  something  for  the  infants.  She  started, 
not  having  heard  him  come  in ;  and  then  she  looked 


28  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

rather  helplessly  round,  as  if  she  felt  she  ought  to  say 
something,  but  could  not  find  words. 

'  Is  that  you,  Susan  ? '  said  John,  and  he  actually 
smiled.  '  I  am  glad  to  see  ye.  I  wish  ye  had  jist  come 
a  wee  quicker.  Katie  wearied  on  ye  comin' ;  but  that's 
past.' 

'  Had  I  kent  she  was  that  ill,  John,  I  wad  hae  come,' 
Susan  answered  quickly.  '  Bide  a  wee,  till  I  fill  the 
kettle  for  Nannie,  an'  I'll  sit  down  aside  ye  a  wee.  We 
maun  see  what's  to  be  dune  wi'  the  handfu'  ben  the 
hoose.' 

In  her  own  swift,  decided,  but  rather  noisy  way, 
Susan  filled  the  kettle  from  the  water  pitcher  in  the 
lobby,  and  took  it  back  to  the  room  fire.  Then  she 
returned  to  the  kitchen,  shutting  the  door  between,  so 
that  Nannie  might  not  hear  what  they  said. 

'  It  is  a  handfu',  John,'  she  said,  sitting  down  by  the 
fireside,  and  crossing  her  hands  on  her  lap.  '  I  dinna 
ken  in  a'  the  world  what  ye  are  to  dae  wi'  the  craturs, 
that's  a  fact.' 

'  Is  Mistress  Cam'll  awa',  Susan  ? '  asked  John 
quietly. 

'  Ay,  it  was  byre-time.  She's  a  kind  woman,  Jean 
Campbell,  an'  a  prudent  as  weel.  She  disna  carry  clashes 
ony  way  frae  hoose  to  hoose.' 

'No,  she's  abune  that.  Ay,  I'll  no'  forget  what 
Jean  Campbell  has  dune  for  me  and  mine,  Shoosan. 
She's  been  like  a  mither  tae  Katie  sin'  ever  she 
cam'  to  the  Star ;  and  Dauvit's  no'  ahint  her  in 
kindness.' 

'Weel,  weel,  I  dinna  doot,'  said  Susan  with  a  note  of 
impatience  in  her  voice.  '  But  what's  to  be  dune  wi' 
the  bairns  ?  that's  the  question  in  the  meantime.' 

'  The  bairns  ?      I'll   get   them   brocht  up  some  way. 


BEREAVED.  29 

I'll  get  some  decent  middle-aged  woman  to  come  an'  keep 
the  boose ;  an'  Jean  Campbell  promised  Katie  that  she 
wad  see  that  the  bairns  were  weel  guided.  Nae  doot  it'll 
be  a  battle ;  but  life's  a  battle  at  the  best.' 

'  Imphim,'  was  Susan  Bethune's  sole  comment.  Truth 
to  tell,  it  piqued  her  to  find  that  John  did  not  count  in 
any  way  upon  her  assistance.  And  yet,  what  could  she 
expect  ?  What  had  lier  treatment  been  of  him  and  his 
for  many  a  day  ? 

"'  Ye'll  no'  hae  heard  that  Peter's  gauna  tak'  a  wife/ 
she  said  presently. 

'  Peter ! '  exclaimed  John,  looking  up  in  utter  surprise. 
'  Ye  dinna  mean  to  say't  ?  ' 

'  Ay,  div  I,'  repeated  Susan  rather  sourly.  '  There's 
nae  fules  like  auld  fules ;  it's  Sammy  Tamson's  weedy  in 
the  Windy  gates  he's  seekiu'.' 

'  That  auld  wife  ! ' 

'  Ay,  that  auld  wife.  He's  gane  to  the  opposite 
extreme,'  said  Susan  grimly.  '  Of  coorse  it's  her  siller 
an'  her  gear.  There's  naething  bonnie  nor  braw  aboot 
her ;  an'  sic  a  temper.  He's  bad  they  say,  but  she'll 
kick  up  bonnie  waps  in  Auchtermairnie,  I  can  tell 
ye.' 

'  You  an'  her'll  no'  'gree  very  sair,  I  doot,  Shoosan,' 
said  John  soberly. 

'  Me  an'  her  gree  !  we'll  no'  try't.  When  she  comes  in 
I  gang  oot.  I'm  no'  that  auld  nor  that  failed  but  I  can 
earn  saut  to  my  kail  yet.' 

There  was  a  short  silence,  for  John  Bethune  was 
revolving  in  his  mind  whether  it  would  be  just  to  Katie 
and  to  Katie's  bairns  to  ask  Susan  to  come  back  to  the 
Star.  He  need  hardly  have  hesitated  on  Katie's  account 
either.  Well  did  he  know  that  she,  in  her  angel  com- 
passion and  sweet  charity  would  have  been  the  very 


30  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

first  to  offer  poor  Susan  a  home.  For  she  was  to  be 
pitied  indeed.  It  seemed  as  if  nobody  in  the  wide 
earth  had  need  of  her;  she  was  a  woman  who  had 
tnissed  her  mark  in  life. 

'  Is't  to  be  sune,  Shoosan  ? '  he  asked  at  length. 

'At'  Mairtinmas,'  was  Susan's  brief  response.  'I 
daursay  it  micht  be  suner  were  I  oot  the  road ;  but  I 
canna  get  a  place  till  the  term.' 

'  What's  faither  sayin'  til't  ? ' 

'  Oh,  naething.  He's  gettin'  into  his  dotage,  puir  man, 
an'  he  thinks  a'thiug  Pete  does  is  richt.  The  twa  hae 
gotten  completely  roond  the  auld  man,  an'  when  Lucky 
Tamson  gets  her  nose  stappit  into  Auchtermairnie, 
there'll  no'  muckle  come  oot  o't  for  you  or  me,  John.' 

'Ye're  welcome  to  come  back  to  yer  auld  bit, 
Shoosan,  if  ye  can  be  fashed  wi'  the  toil  o'  the  bairns,' 
said  John  slowly.  '  Ye'll  no'  tak'  kindly  workin'  to  the 
frem  at  your  years.  What  d'ye  say  ? ' 

Susan  Bethune  sat  in  absolute  silence,  with  her  eyes 
fixed  on  the  smouldering  fire.  There  was  a  strange 
softness  in  them  when  she  raised  them  to  her  brother's 
face. 

'  If  ye  wad  let  me,  John,'  she  said,  her  hard  voice  a 
trifle  unsteady,  'I  wad  toil  nicht  an'  day  for  you  an' 
for  the  bairns.  I'll  seek  naething  but  my  bite  an'  sup, 
an'  I'll  guide  the  bairns  as  weel  as  ever  I  can,  for  the 
sake  o'  her  that's  awa.' 

'  Then  ye'll  come,  Shoosan  ?  thank  ye,'  said  John 
quietly,  and  for  a  time  there  was  no  more  said. 

'  John,'  said  Susan  at  last,  her  voice  sunk  almost  to  a 
whisper,  '  d'ye  think  Katie  forgied  me  afore  she  gaed 
awa'.  Oh,  if  I  had  only  the  chaiice  to  tell  her  noo  hoo  I 
rue  my  daein's  in  the  past ! ' 

'There  was  naething  in  Katie's  heart,   Shoosan,  but 


BEREAVED.  31 

love  an'  kindness  to  every  human  bein' ;  she  never 
spak'  o'  you  but  wi'  respect,'  said  John ;  and  then 
he  laid  down  his  head  on  Katie's  Bible,  wholly  over- 
come. 

Unwonted  tears  stood  in  Susan  Bethune's  eyes  as 
she  witnessed  the  tempest  of  grief  which  shook  the 
stalwart  frame  of  her  brother  John.  There  is  some- 
thing awe-inspiring  in  the  upheaving  of  a  still,  self-con- 
tained nature ;  we  stand  silent  before  such  dear-bought 
tears. 

'  Dinna,  John,  dinna  gie  way  ! '  pleaded  Susan,  for  she 
could  not  bear  the  sight.  Then  she  rose  up  and  touched 
him  gently  on  the  shoulder ;  and  after  a  moment  their 
hands  met  in  a  fervent  clasp.  They  were  very  near 
together  in  that  moment.  It  was  as  if  the  long  years 
had  rolled  back,  and  they  were  boy  and  girl  again, 
gathering  buttercup  and  gowan  by  the  wayside,  with 
naught  but  love  in  their  hearts.  And  so  sorrow  is 
infinite  in  its  power,  infinite  because  divine. 


CHAPTER  IIL 


ALONE. 

'  Then  turn,  and  the  old  duties  take, 
Alone  now — yet  with  earnest  will, 
Gathering  sweet  sacred  traces  still, 
To  help  thee  on.' 

ADELAID, 


>EXT  morning  word  was  sent  to  such  as  had 
been  more  intimate  neighbours,  or  had  shown 
any  special  kindness  to  the  dead,  to  come 
and  see  her  as  she  lay  so  still  and  white  in 
the  sleep  which  knows  no  earthly  awakening. 
It  was  an  old  custom  peculiar  to  the  place,  and 
though  John  Bethune  did  not  himself  care  about 
it,  Susan  was  very  particular  that  no  mark  of  respect 
should  be  wanting,  and  that  the  neighbours  should  not 
have  an  opening  to  say  that  anything  was  neglected  or 
passed  by.  All  who  were  asked  came  as  a  matter  of 
course ;  to  stay  away  would  have  been  taken  as  a  mark 
of  disrespect  to  the  dead.  When  the  wives"  began  to 
arrive,  John  retired  into  the  shop  and  sat  down  at  his 
loom,  for  he  could  not  have  borne  to  see  so  many  curious 

M 


ALONE.  33 

eyes  staring  at  his  darling,  nor  could  he  have  endured  to 
hear  the  stream  of  morbid  talk  at  which  her  death  and  the 
circumstances  would  give  rise.  He  heard,  however,  the 
low  and  continuous  hum  of  conversation,  which  was  only 
interrupted  once  by  the  shrill  wail  of  the  infants,  doubt- 
less roused  from  their  slumber  to  be  inspected  by  the 
throng.  Susan  Bethune  comported  herself  with  dignity 
through  the  ceremonies,  and  in  her  effective  way  put  her 
foot  on  any  questions  which  she  deemed  the  outcome  of 
idle  curiosity.  Two  qualities  Susan  Bethune  possessed 
beyond  a  doubt,  prudence  and  reserve  concerning  herself 
and  the  affairs  of  her  own  family ;  and  certainly  none 
could  accuse  her  of  meddling  with  other  people's  busi- 
ness. The  neighbours  were  obliged  to  retire  at  last  with 
their  curiosity  still  unsatisfied,  for  Susan  had  skilfully 
parried  every  question  concerning  her  brother's  inten- 
tions, and  when  Kirsty  Paterson,  more  bold  in  her 
curiosity  than  the  others,  had  inquired  whether  the 
bairns  were  to  be  taken  home  to  Auchtermairnie,  she 
only  answered  with  a  fine  indifference,  '  Maybe,  Kirsty,' 
but  even  that  was  sufficient  for  that  worthy's  fertile 
imagination,  for  she  immediately  took  it  upon  her  to 
publish  abroad  the  fact  that  John  Bethune's  bairns  were 
going  home  to  Auchtermairnie,  with  the  further  ground- 
less addition  that  he  was  more  than  likely  to  leave  the 
loom,  and  give  up  the  land,  though  it  was  paying  well 
enough,  just  because  he  could  not  bear  to  live  in  the 
Star  without  Katie.  So  news  was  spread  in  the  Star 
by  the  indefatigable  Kirsty,  whose  sole  occupation  and 
interest  in  life  was  '  redding  up '  her  neighbours  and 
their  affairs.  t  It  was  well  enough  known  that  the  truth 
was  not  in  her,  and  yet  it  was  wonderful  how  her  stories 
spread  and  were  believed  in  the  place ;  and  how  those 
who  behind  her  back  applied  to  her  the  choice  appella- 


34  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

ti.n  of  'an  auld  leear,'  were  the  very  readiest  to  stand 
open-mouthed  while  she  emptied  her  repertoire  for  their 
benefit.  In  the  gloaming  that  same  night  one  of  the 
ploughman  lads  from  the  Knowe  went  from  door  to 
door,  as  was  the  fashion,  bidding  the  folk  turn  out  to 
Katie  Law's  burying  at  two  o'clock  next  afternoon.  So 
in  the  sweet,  still,  drowsy  sunshine  the  mournful  proces- 
sion set  out  from  John  Bethune's  door  to  lay  Katie 
Law  in  her  last  resting-place  beside  the  Bethunes  in 
Kennoway  kirkyard.  At  his  father's  earnest  solici- 
tation John  Bethune  went  into  Auchtermairnie  to 
his  tea  on  the  way  home,  and  to  have  a  talk  over 
family  affairs. 

'  Shoosan  '11  hae  tae  telt  ye,  dootless,  that  Pete's 
gaun  to  get  Mag  Tamson,'  said  the  old  man  with  a 
queer,  dry  chuckle.  'What  think  ye  o'  his  bargain, 
John  ? ' 

'  If  Pete  is  pleased,  faither,  it's  nae  business  o'  mine,' 
answered  John  languidly,  for  it  seemed  strange  to  him 
that  other  men  should  be  thinking  of  marrying  when 
such  desolation  had  overtaken  him.  'There's  naething 
against  the  woman  that  I  ken  o'.' 

'  Na,  na,  there's  naething  against  her,  an'  she  has  a 
wecht  o'  siller,  forby  sax  or  seeven  hooses  east  at  Enster. 
Ay,  ay,  Pete's  a  sly  dowg.  Ye  never  was  sae  wise  in 
yer  ain  interest,  or  ye  wad  never  hae  taen  her 
that's  awa,  puir  lassie,'  said  the  old  man.  '  Wheesht, 
here's  Pete  1  Dinna  let  on  I  was  sayin*  onything 
aboot  Mag.' 

Peter  Bethune,  jealous  and  suspicious  lest  they  should 
have  been  discussing  him,  had  wrenched  himself  away 
from  the  neighbours  discussing  '  craps '  on  the  road,  and 
came  hurriedly  up  to  them  just  as  they  reached  the 
door.  It  hurt  John  to  see  how  the  old  man  cowered  in 


ALONE.  35 

behind  him,  as  if  afraid  to  encounter  Peter's  evil  eye. 
He  knew  that  his  brother  was  not  a  pleasant  person 
to  live  with,  but  he  had  no  idea  of  the  manner  in 
which  he  persecuted  the  old  man,  until  his  life  had 
become  a  miserable  burden,  which  he  would  gladly 
lay  down. 

'  I'll  jist  awa'  up  an'  see  if  Geordie  minded  to  water 
the  staigs,'  he  said  nervously,  hurrying  off  in  his  funeral 
clothes,  as  if  glad  to  get  out  of  the  way. 

'  What  was  the  auld  ane  sayin'  aboot  me  ? '  inquired 
Peter  suspiciously.  '  Had  he  a  fine  story  about  the 
Windy  gates  ? ' 

'No,  Shoosan  telt  me  that,  Peter,'  answered  John 
quietly.  '  Ye're  no'  ill  to  please  wi"  a  wife.' 

'  What  faut  has  she  ?  She's  maybe  no  sae  young 
an'  weel-faured  as  yours  was,'  said  Peter  with  unfeeling 
candour.  '  But  she  has  years  upon  her  heid,  an'  sense, 
which  few  weemin  hae.' 

'An'  siller  in  her  pocket  forby,  Pete,'  added  John 
with  the  glimmer  of  a  dry  smile.  '  Weel,  if  ye  be 
half  sae  happy  as  I  was,  ye'll  bless  the  day  ye  ever 
saw  her.' 

And  then  his  eyes  wandered  eastward  in  the  direction 
of  the  quiet  kirkyard,  where  the  sunshine  of  his  life  had 
been  buried  not  an  hour  ago. 

*  Shoosan's  unco  ill  at  it,  John,'  said  Peter  pre- 
sently. '  But  a  man  canna  live  single  for  ever,  because 
he  happens  to  hae  a  sister  at  hame.  What  think 
ye?' 

'  I  dinna  think  Shoosan's  that  ill  at  it,  Pete,'  said 
John  gently.  ,'  But  ye  needna  bother  yersel'  about  her. 
She's  comin'  back  to  her  auld  bit  in  the  Star.' 

'  Eh,  d'ye  say  sae  ? '  queried  Peter  with  a  quick,  eager, 
satisfied  grin.  '  That's  a  guid  thing  for  her '  ('  an'  for 


36  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

me,'  was  on  his  lips,  but  with  unusual  consideration  he 
held  his  peace). 

Then  they  went  into  the  house,  and  Peter,  casting 
his  black  coat,  set  on  the  kettle,  and  proceeded  to  put 
the  tea-things  on  the  table,  for  Susan  had  well  schooled 
the  men-folk  of  the  household  in  the  art  of  doing  for 
themselves.  It  could  not,  however,  be  called  a  tempting 
meal,  and  John  ate  very  sparingly,  and  spoke  but  little. 
He  did  not  know  what  it  was,  but  in  Pete's  presence  he 
felt  his  lips  sealed,  and  could  only  answer  his  remarks  in 
the  briefest  monosyllables. 

'  I'll  need  to  be  stappin','  he  said  directly  the  meal 
was  over.  '  Shoosan  '11  be  weary  in' ;  an'  it's  time  I  was 
hame.' 

'  Ye  micht  sit  till  I  gang  up  to  the  field  and 
see  what  they're  aboot.  It's  near  lowsin'  time,'  said 
Peter."  'An'  syne  I'll  gang  wast  the  road  a  bit 
wi'  ye.' 

'  I'll  no'  wait,  Peter.  Faither  '11  convoy  me  a  bit. 
I  hae  twa-three  things  to  speak  about  onyway,'  said 
John,  rising  to  his  feet. 

Peter  looked  rather  annoyed.  He  was  divided  be- 
tween jealousy  of  what  John  and  his  father  might  say, 
and  distrust  of  his  ploughmen,  who,  as  is  often  the  case 
with  those  bound  to  a  hard  master,  were  only  eye  and 
lip  servants,  who  only  did  their  duty  under  that  master's 
supervision. 

'  Ye're  in  a  fell  hurry,'  he  said  sourly.  '  Ye'll  no' 
gang  faur,  faither ;  there's  a  heap  adae,  an'  it'll  be  sax 
o'clock  in  a  crack.' 

'  No,  I'll  no'  bide,'  said  the  old  man  meekly,  and 
walked  away  very  gladly  with  John,  half  expecting  Peter 
to  call  him  back  every  minute.  '  Pete's  an  awfu'  billy 
to  work,  John,'  he  said  when  they  were  fairly  out  on 


ALONE.  37 

the  road ;  and  a  little  sigh  followed  the  words,  as  if  he 
felt  weary  at  times  of  his  son's  industry. 

'  Let  him  work  as  hard  as  he  likes,  faither,  but  dinna 
you  fash,'  said   John   in  his   kind  way.     '  Ye  hae  gane  . 
mony  a  lang,  sair  yoldn'  in  yer  time.     Ye  should  rest  noo.' 

'  Eh,  man,  Pete  wadna  let  me.  He  hands  at  me 
mornin',  mine,  an'  nicht.  I  canna  get  my  twa  hoors 
at  denner-time  like  the  men  ;  an'  I'm  fell  wearit  for't, 
I  can  tell  ye.  I'm  whiles  ower  tired  at  nicht  to 
sleep,'  said  the  old  man  childishly.  '  Ye  wadna  be 
sae  hard  on  the  auld  ane,  John.' 

'  Peter  has  nae  richt  to  gar  ye  work,  faither.  Are  ye 
no'  the  maister  ?  Dinna  dae  it.' 

'  It's  easy  sayin'  that,  but  I'm  fear't  at  Pete,  John. 
He's  a  wild  loon,  an'  he's  gotten  the  better  o'  me,'  said 
the  old  man  hopelessly.  '  It'll  be  waur,  I  doot,  when 
Mag  Tamson  conies  hame.  She's  no'  just  wi'  greed,  they 
say,  an'  a  tearin'  worker  as  weel.  I  whiles  wish,  John, 
that  I  was  lyin'  quate  i'  the  mools,  as  weel's  yer  mither 
an'  yer  wifie,  puir  lammib.  She  had  aye  a  bonnie  bit 
blink  for  the  auld  man.' 

'Faither,'  said  John  after  a  pause,  'ye  hinna  let 
Pete  get  his  haund  on  the  siller  or  the  deeds  o'  ony  o'  the 
property,  hae  ye  ? ' 

'  'Deed  he's  gotten  mair  nor  he  should  hae  gotten.  I 
hav'na  the  heid  I  used  to  hae,  John,  an'  he  said  he  wad 
manage  things  for  me  an'  save  bother.  But  I'll  hae  to 
gang  ower  to  Cupar,  I  doot,  an'  see  Wulson  the  writer. 
If  I  could  get  slippit  awa'  some  Seterday,  maybe  when 
Pete's  at  Kirkcaldy  market,  ye  micht  meet  me  at 
Markinch,  an'  we  wad  gang  up  thegither.' 

'  I  could  dae  that,  but  there's  nae  reason  what  way  we 
should  dae  onything  on  the  sly,  faither.  I'll  come  along 
some  nicht  sune,  an'  redd  things  up  wi'  Pete.  The 


38  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

siller's  naething  to  me,  but  there's  Shoosan.  She  deserves 
her  share.  She  has  wrocht  for  it.' 

'  Verra  weel ;  only  dinna  roose  Pete,  or  there'll  be  nae 
leevin'  wi'  him/  said  the  old  man  rather  anxiously.  '  I 
houp,  my  man,  that  nane  o'  your  bits  o'  laddies  '11  be  as 
ill  to  you  as  Pete's  been  to  me.' 

'  I  houp  no',  faither,'  was  John's  answer,  given  in  a 
low,  almost  stern  voice,  for  his  righteous  ire  was  kindled 
against  his  brother. 

'  Weel,  I'll  awa'  hame,  John,'  said  his  father  when 
they  reached  the  gate  of  Newtonhall.  'I'll  mebbe 
come  wast  an'  see  the  bairns  gin  Sawbath  nicht  if 
you  an'  Shoosan's  no'  east.  Dinna  be  lang  o'  comin', 
wull  ye  no'  ?' 

'  No,  I'll  no'  be  lang,  faither,'  answered  John  with  a 
kind  smile,  and,  shaking  his  father  warmly  by  the  hand, 
he  turned  and  went  his  way.  The  old  man  looked  back 
often  ere  the  curve  in  the  road  hid  his  son  from  sight, 
and  there  was  a  moisture  in  his  poor  dim  eyes  suspiciously 
akin  to  tears. 

It  seemed  to  John  Bethune,  as  he  entered  his  own 
door  that  night,  that  he  had  left  the  sweetest  and  best 
part  of  his  life  behind  for  ever,  and  that  what  still 
remained,  whether  long  or  short,  would  only  be  a  life 
of  duty  and  conscientious  care,  unmixed  with  any  bright- 
ness whatsoever.  That  had  all  been  buried  that  day  in 
Katie's  grave.  Susan  was  sitting  at  the  fire  with  the  two 
infants  on  her  lap,  and  it  was  quite  wonderful  how  much 
at  home  she  looked  in  that  position.  They  were  not 
asleep,  only  lying  toasting  their  little  pink  feet,  and 
blinking  at  the  fire. 

'Weel,  John,  hae  ye  gotten  'd  a'  by?'  said  she  very 
softly  for  her.  'Ye've  surely  been  in  at  Auchter- 
mairnie  ? ' 


ALONE.  39 

'Ay,  faither  wadna  let  me  by.  I've  gotten  my 
tea,  Susan,'  answered  John,  and,  laying  off  his  black 
coat,  he  came  over  and  stood  looking  with  a  strange 
curiosity  at  the  little  atoms  of  humanity  on  his  sister's 
knee. 

'  They're  sma'  but  they're  fin^  bairns,  John/  said 
Susan,  not  without  pride.  '  A'body  says  sae.' 

Ay,  they're  verra  sma'.  It's  queer  to  think  that 
they'll  be  men  some  day.  They'll  tak'  a  heap  o'  growin' 
afore  then.' 

'  They  11  come  on.  "What  are  ye  gaun  to  ca'  them, 
John  ? ' 

'  The  auldest  ane  '11  be  Alexander,  efter  faither  an' 
efter  godly  Alexander  Bethune  that  fell  beside  Eathillet 
on  Airsmoss,'  said  John.  'We'll  mak'  him  a  minister, 
Shoosan.  Katie  aye  said  that  if  the  bairn  was  a  laddie, 
she  wad  mak'  him  a  minister.' 

'  An'  the  ither  ane  ? ' 

'  Jeems,  I  think.  Katie  had  aince  a  brither,  ye  ken, 
an'  his  name  was  Jeems.  We'll  ca'  him  Jeems  Law.  I 
think  Katie  wad  like  that.' 

'  An'  what'll  ye  mak'  o'  him  ? ' 

'I  dinna  ken.  We'll  see  hoo  the  laddie  turns  oot. 
There's  the  laund  here,  ye  ken,  an'  the  loom  efter  I'm 
dune.' 

'  I  doot  if  he'll  uo  content  to  sit  at  a  loom  a'  his  days, 
puir  man,'  said  Susan.  '  Wha'll  ye  get  to  carry  them  to 
the  kirk,  John.' 

'  Naebody.  Maister  Bell  '11  jht  come  oot  an'  christen 
them  in  the  hoose.  He  disna  care  aboot  it,  I  ken  ;  but 
m  the  circumstances  he'll  come.' 

'  Surely,'  answered  Susan.  '  I  wish  I  had  the  next 
three  year  by,  John.  Did  ye  say  onything  to  Pete 
aboot  Mag  Tamson  ? ' 


40  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

'  No'  me ;  he  spak  aboot  her  first.  I  think  the  auld 
man  has  a  puir  time  o't  wi'  Pete.  He's  a  graspin',  hard- 
hearted lump.' 

'Ay  is  he/  answered  Susan  with  extreme  emphasis. 
'  Mag  Tamson  maybe  thinks  she's  gotten  a  bargain,  but 
she'll  find  oot  her  mistak'.  If  she  has  a'  they  say,  she's 
a  fule  to  tak'  oor  Pete.  The  twasome  '11  fecht  like  cat 
an'  dowg.' 

'  We  hae  naething  adae  wi'  that,  Shoosan ;  but  we'll 
hae  to  see  that  faither  gets  justice  atween  them,'  answered 
John  rather  wearily,  as  if  the  discussion  saddened  and 
annoyed  him.  '  But  I'll  hae  to  get  awa'  to  the  loom.  This 
kind  o'  wark  '11  no'  fill  thae  twa  mooths,'  he  said  with  a 
mournful  smile,  and  touching  with  tender,  almost  reverent 
finger  the  soft  faces  of  the  bairns.  '  I'm  like  you, 
Shoosan ;  I  could  wish  the  next  three  year,  ay,  an'  the 
next  twenty  year  by,  or  I  see  the  craturs  stannin'  on 
their  ain  legs.' 

'  I  dinna  ken,  maybe  they'll  be  a  greater  care  then 
nor  the  noo,'  answered  Susan. 

'  Ye're  richt.  We  can  but  houp  an'  pray  that  they 
may  grow  up  wi'  the  grace  o'  God  in  their  hearts,  an' 
then  there'll  be  nae  fear  o'  them,'  said  John  as  he  turned 
away  to  resume  his  work,  which  had  been  laid  aside  since 
Katie's  death. 

It  was  dreary  work  for  a  few  days,  ay,  for  weeks  at 
first,  and  yet  it  was  wonderful  how  the  interest  of 
the  bairns  kept  his  thoughts  from  dwelling  too  much 
and  too  painfully  on  his  loss.  It  is  a  merciful  pro- 
vision God  makes  oftentimes  for  the  bereaved.  He 
knows  so  well  just  what  we  need,  and  how  much  we 
can  endure. 

The  twins  were  just  like  other  children,  more  fretful 
than  they  might  have  been,  perhaps,  under  their  mother's 


ALONE.  41 

care.  For  Susan,  poor  body,  though  so  willing,  was  of 
necessity  awkward  in  handling  them,  and  made  many  a 
queer  and  laughable  mistake.  But  she  did  her  duty  by 
them  faithfully,  as  any  mother  could  have  done,  bearing 
patiently  their  fretfulness,  and  never  uttering  a  word  of 
grumbling  or  complaint.  Even  those  who  disliked  her 
most  could  not  say  otherwise  than  that  she  had  done 
well.  The  first  year  was  one  of  toil  more  unremitting 
and  wearing  than  even  John  Bethune  dreamed  of.  But 
by  and  by,  when  they  were  past  the  most  trying  period 
of  child-life,  and  began  to  toddle  on  their  own  little  legs, 
and  utter  these  uncertain  sounds  which  fall  so  sweetly 
from  baby  lips  trying  the  mysteries  of  speech,  they 
became  a  constant  source  of  interest  and  diversion  to 
their  father  and  their  aunt.  They  made  for  both  the 
very  sunshine  of  life,  and  often  John  Bethune's  eyes 
would  till  with  unbidden  tears  at  the  thought  of  the  joy 
it  would  have  been  to  Katie  to  have  watched  with  him 
the  gradual  and  exquisite  unfolding  of  their  infant 
powers. 

Before  the  twins  were  six  months  old,  Peter  Bethune's 
wife  entered  upon  her  reign  at  Auchtermairnie.  She  was 
a  widow,  with  a  married  daughter,  and  three  grown-up 
sons,  who,  however,  were  all  in  the  way  of  doing  for 
themselves.  She  was  a  managing,  clever  woman,  and 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life  Peter  Bethune  tasted  the 
luxury  of  being  thwarted  and  set  aside.  His  wife  had 
been  accustomed  to  rule  all  her  days,  and  it  was  not 
easy  for  her  to  obey  now.  Both  being  obstinate,  they 
speedily  disagreed  ;  and  it  appeared  as  if  Susan's  pre- 
diction was  likely  to  be  fulfilled. 

She  was  avaricious  as  her  husband,  but  she  had  finer 
feelings,  and  a  higher  sense  of  right  and  wrong.  There- 
fore she  upheld  John  in  his  desire  to  have  the  property 

4 


42  THE.  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

equally  divided,  and  she  also  shielded  the  old  man  from 
Peter's  petty  tyranny ;  and,  indeed,  tried  to  do  her  duty 
at  Auchtennairnie.  But  there  could  never  be  happiness 
there,  for  there  was  neither  grace  nor  love  to  sweeten 
life's  daily  toil.  But  there  was  love  and  peace  in  the 
little  cottage  at  the  Star,  and  Katie's  bairns  grew  apace, 
until  they  left  their  childhood  behind. 


CHAPTER   IV. 


TWO  SONS. 
*  The  deep,  sad  yearnings  of  an  earnest  soul.' 

'T  was  the  third  week  in  September,  and  the 
folk  were  all  '  leading  in  '  round  about  the 
Star  an   early  and  abundant  harvest.     The 
days  were  shortening  fast  ;  the  mistress  had 
to  take  a  lantern  to  the  milking  at  nights, 
and  the  early  mornings  were  beginning  to  be 
very  cold  and  grey.     But  it  was  a  busy,  happy, 
cheerful  time,  and   when  it    was   well    over,  folk  were 
ready  to  prepare  themselves  for  the  lighter  labours  and 
more  abundant  leisure  of  the  winter. 

The  harvest  moon  was  at  its  full  on  the'  night  when 
David  Campbell  was  building  the  last  stack  in  the  corn 
yard  ;  it  was  his  custom,  and  had  been  his  father's  before 
him,  to  build  the  first  and  the  last  stack  every  year.  The 
mistress  paused  for  a  moment  when  she  left  the  byre  to 
watch  the  stir  in  the  yard,  and  then  hurried  down  to  the 
house  with  her  pails,  to  find  the  usual  little  knot  of 
customers  clustered  at  the  door  discussing  the  homely 
gossip  of  the  day. 

43 


44  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

'Ye're  a'  there  that's  ony thing  worth,  I  see,'  she 
said  in  her  cheery  way.  •  '  I'm  late  the  nicht,  for  baith 
Mary  and  me's  been  oot  the  best  pairt  o'  the  day. 
The  thrang  '11  wear  by,  though,  an'  then  we'll  get  a 
breath.' 

'  Your  thrang's  seldom  by,  Mistress  Cam'll,'  said  Kirsty 
Paterson  with  a  kind  of  girn,  just  as  if  she  grudged  the 
mistress  her  busy,  happy  life. 

'Aweel,  Kirsty,  if  it  never  wear  by,  we  maun  jist 
fecht  on  till  we  maun  lie  doon,'  she  said,  as  she  mea- 
sured out  the  milk  with  swift,  unerring  hand. 

Kirsty  took  her  milk  and  retired,  but  hung  on  the 
doorstep  a  minute  to  hear  a  neighbour  make  some 
remark  about  some  strangers  who  had  come  to  Carriston 
by  the  afternoon  train.  Mrs.  Campbell  was  civil  and 
attentive  to  them,  but  she  did  not  encourage  them  to 
stand,  for  her  hands  were  so  full  of  work  she  hardly 
knew  where  to  turn.  When  she  went  ben  to  the  kitchen, 
she  started  to  see  a  figure  sitting  on  her  husband's  chair, 
apparently  deep  in  thought. 

'  Oh,  it's  you,  Jamie  Bethune  ? '  she  said  pleasantly. 
'  A'  weel  the  nicht  ?  Is  yer  auntie  better  ? ' 

'  Yes,  she's  better,'  answered  the  lad  briefly. 

'  Yer  faither  an'  Sandy's  back  frae  St.  Andrews.  Mary 
saw  them  gang  yont  the  road  i'  the  darkenin','  she  said, 
as  she  proceeded  to  light  the  lamp.  '  Is  ony  thing 
settled  ? ' 

'  Yes,  it's  a'  settled,'  answered  the  lad  in  the  same  still, 
quiet  way.  '  Sandy  gangs  awa'  to  the  college  Monday 
eight  day  a' 

'  Aweel,  I  wish  him  weel,'  said  the  mistress  ;  ard  for 
a  little  there  was  no  more  said.  Although  she  was 
silent,  she  was  keenly  watching  the  lad  as  she  went 
busily  about  preparing  supper  for  the  men  ;  and  she  saw 


TWO  SONS.  45 

well  enough  that  there  was  something  amiss.  Jamie 
Bethune,  the  younger  of  poor  Katie  Law's  twins,  had 
grown  to  be  a  tall,  slender  stripling,  of  build  and  appearance 
more  resembling  a  city  boy  than  one  reared  in  the  Star. 
He  stood  already  five  feet  nine  in  his  stockings,  but  his 
figure  was  loose  and  unformed  ;  his  pale  face,  with  its 
large,  irregular  features,  very  thin  and  haggard.  It  was 
not  a  handsome,  scarcely  a  good-looking  face,  but  it  was 
redeemed  from  plainness  by  the  earnest,  speaking  dark 
eyes,  which  shone  like  stars  under  a  broad,  open  brow, 
indicative  of  ability  and  thought.  Jamie  Bethune  was  not 
of  much  account  in  the  Star,  being  spoken  of  mostly  as 
Sandy's  brother.  It  was  Sandy,  bright,  clever,  rattling 
Sandy,  who  won  everybody's  heart,  and  made  his  mark 
wherever  he  went.  Few  loved  the  shy,  awkward 
younger  brother,  because  he  was  really  known  to  very 
few. 

'  What's  your  trouble,  Jamie,  my  man  ? '  said  Jean 
Campbell  kindly;  for,  in  spite  of  all,  Jamie  was  her 
favourite,  because  he  reminded  her  of  the  poor  young 
mother  she  had  loved  so  well. 

'  Naething.  I  was  only  thinking;  that's  a','  answered 
the  lad  with  a  heavy  sigh,  which  escaped  him  against 
his  will  or  inclination. 

'Ay,'  was  the  mistress's  reply,  but  that  dry  mono- 
syllable implied  a  great  deaL  '  Tell  yer  faither,  Jamie, 
that  we'll  be  at  his  barley  the  morn.  The  last  sheaf  '11  be 
in  aff  Edom's  land  by  this  time,  I  expeck.  Ye've  a  guid 
crap  the  maister  tells  me ! ' 

'  Ay,  it's  no'  bad,'  said  Jamie,  rousing  himself  with  an 
effort.  'They've  graund  stuff  on  Auchtermairnie  this 
year,  Mrs.  Campbell.  Uncle  Peter  was  tellin'  's  on 
Sawbath  that  he  has  some  oats  very  near  six  feet  high.' 

'That'll    please   yer   Uncle    Peter,    laddie/    said    the 


46  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

mistress  with  a  laugh ;  '  he  likes  by-ordinar*  things. 
Oh,  here's  Mary.  Mysie's  surely  ta'en  an  unco'  strippin 
the  nicht,  lassie  ! ' 

The  young  girl,  who  at  that  moment  entered  the 
kitchen,  turned  her  hack  to  hide  the  deep  blush  which 
overspread  her  bonnie  face,  but  she  had  never  a  word  to 
say.  A  sweet  and  winsome  lassie  was  Mary  Campbell, 
the  orphan  daughter  of  David  Campbell's  brother,  who  had 
come  to  them  when  she  was  a  little  toddling  thing, 
scarcely  able  to  walk  or  talk.  She  had  been  in  all 
respects  like  a  child  of  their  own  to  the  childless  couple 
at  the  Knowe,  and  the  love  between  them  was  almost  as 
strong  as  that  between  parent  and  child.  She  was  only 
sixteen,  a  year  younger  than  the  Bethunes,  whose  com- 
panion and  playmate  she  had  been  since  ever  she  had 
come  to  the  Star. 

She  was  not  only  bonnie,  but  her  bright  and  happy 
disposition  made  her  beloved  by  both  young  and  old.  No 
harvest  maiden  or  other  merrymaking  was  complete  with- 
out her,  and  at  the  dancing  when  the  market  came  round 
she  had  more  partners  than  any  of  her  companions.  But 
though  she  was  such  a  favourite  she  disarmed  all  envy 
and  jealousy  by  her  own  sweet  gentleness,  and  there  was 
not  a  particle  of  coquetry  in  Mary  Campbell's  disposition. 
Her  aunt  had  brought  her  up  to  work  early  and  late, 
but  she  was  wonderfully  indulgent,  and  did  not  try  her 
strength  too  far.  When  she  had  somewhat  recovered 
herself  she  nodded  to  Jamie  Bethune,  and,  taking  off  the 
big  apron  tied  above  her  dainty  print  dress,  she  smoothed 
her  shining  fair  hair  before  the  little  glass.  It  was  a 
bonnie,  rosy,  healthy-hued  face  reflected  there,  lit  by  a 
pair  of  deep  grey  eyes,  capable  of  many  varying  expres- 
sions ;  it  was  curious  that  when  in  repose  these  eyes  gave 
to  Mary  Campbell's  face  a  somewhat  sad  cast,  which  would 


TWO  SONS.  47 

have  surprised  those  who  knew  her  only  in  her  merrier 
moods. 

'  Can  I  gang  oot  a  wee,  Auntie  Jean  ? '  she  asked.  '  Or 
will  I  bide  to  wash  the  dishes  ? ' 

'  Whaur  d'ye  want  to  be  trailin'  to  the  nicht,  lassie  ? ' 
asked  Auntie  Jean  rather  slily.  'Ye  should  bide  an' 
wash  the  dishes,  ye  ken  brawly,  but  awa'  ye  go.  Dinna 
bide  late,  an'  dinna  gang  faur.' 

Mary  nodded,  her  face  radiant,  and,  casting  a  shawl 
about  her  head  and  shoulders,  she  said  good-night  to 
Jamie,  and  disappeared. 

'  Sandy  '11  be  waitin'  to  gie  her  the  news,  readilys,' 
said  the  mistress  with  a  comical  smile.  '  It's  a  kind  o' 
divert  to  see  the  craturs.  They're  faur  ower  young,  I  tell 
them,  to  be  thinkin'  on  sic  a  thing ;  but  I  needna  speak, 
I  was  makin'  my  providin'  when  I  was  Mary's  age.  Ay, 
that's  a  gey  while  syne.' 

The  mistress's  keen  eyes  dwelt  most  searchingly  on  the 
lad's  face  as  she  spoke,  and  he  smiled  as  if  he  rather 
enjoyed  what  she  was  saying.  Evidently  Mary  was  not 
connected  with  his  despondency.  In  a  moment,  however, 
the  pleasing  brightness  disappeared  from  his  face,  and  it 
resumed  its  downcast  and  even  sad  expression. 

'  Ye'll  miss  Sandy  when  he  gangs  to  the  toon,  Jamie,1 
said  the  mistress  kindly. 

'  Ay,  I'll  miss  him/  Jamie  assented.  '  Mair,  likely,  nor 
he'll  miss  me.' 

'  But  it's  a  guid  thing,  as  I  said  to  Dauvit,  that  ye 
arena  baith  gaun  thegither.  Yer  faither  couldna  weel 
want  ye  baith,  an'  there's  plenty  for  you  to  dae  at  hame.' 

4  Ay,  there's  plenty,  sure  enough,'  said  Jamie,  speaking 
with  a  strange  bitterness.  '  There's  no'  muckle  time  for 
naething  but  wark  doon  by.' 

Mrs.   Campbell   lifted   her   head   from   her  work,  and 


48  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

looked  with  a  strange  swiftness  into  the  lad's  faca  In  a 
moment  the  whole  thing  was  made  plain  to  her,  and  she 
wondered  at  her  own  blindness. 

'  Wark's  guid  for  folk,  laddie ;  it  has  cured  mony  a 
sorrow,'  she  said  softly.  '  We  dinna  aye  like  it,  my  man, 
an'  whiles  we  think  we  could  carve  oot  a  better  way  for 
oorsel's,  but  when  ye've  lived  as  lang  as  me,  ye'll  hae 
learned,  I  dinna  doot,  that  the  Lord's  ways  are  the  best, 
ay,  the  best  for  a'  in  the  end,'  she  added,  more  to  herself 
than  to  him. 

'  D'ye  think  He  tak's  as  muckle  interest  in's  as  that, 
Mrs.  Campbell  ? '  inquired  Jamie.  '  There's  that  mony 
things  gae  wrang,  that  a  body  can  hardly  think  it.' 

'  It's  when  oor  veesion's  dim  wi'  oor  ain  troubles, 
maistly  o'  oor  ain  makin'  tae,  that  we  begin  to  herbour 
sic  thochts.  It'll  a'  come  richt  by  and  by,  if  we  wad 
but  hae  patience  to  wait  and  see,'  said  the  mistress 
quietly.  *  '  Aweel,  here  they  come  to  their  supper ;  I  hear 
the  inaister  speaking.  Will  ye  no'  bide  an'  tak'  a  bite 
wi'  them  ? ' 

'No  thenk  ye,  I've  bidden  ower  lang  a'ready,'  said  the 
lad,  rising  to  his  feet.  Mrs.  Campbell  accompanied  him 
to  the  door,  and  as  he  turned  to  go  she  laid  her  hand  on 
his  shoulder,  and  looked  with  kindly  sympathy  into  his 
face.  'Jamie,  my  man,  wad  ye  like  to  fill  a  poopit 
tae?' 

'  No,  I  wadna ;  but  I  wad  gie  my  richt  hand,  Mrs. 
Campbell,  for  Sandy's  chance,'  said  the  lad  with  a  strange 
passion.  '  No'  that  I  grudge  him  it,  mind  ye,  but  it's  an 
awfu'  thing  to  be  tied  doon  to  wark  ye  dinna  like.' 

'  Ye  mauna  gie  way  to  sic  thochts,  Jamie  ;  yer  wark's 
honest  and  honourable,  an'  if  ye  stick  in,  ye're  bound  to 
dae  weel,'  said  the  good  woman,  wisely  putting  a  curb  on 
her  own  sympathies,  which  were  all  with  him.  '  There's 


TWO  SONS.  49 

an  auld  proverb,  laddie,  that  says,  "  Ilka  dowg  has  its 
day."  Yer  day  11  come  in  guid  time.  Till  then  con- 
tent yersel',  an'  be  as  happy  as  ye  can,  like  a  rnan.' 

There  was  no  time  to  answer,  for  just  then  the  maister 
and  the  men  came  round  the  corner,  and  the  guid  wife 
ran  in  to  see  that  everything  was  ready  for  them. 

James  Bethune  returned  the  farmer's  cheery  guid  e'en.and 
walked  away  down  the  road  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets 
and  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground.  There  was  the  usual  group 
of  loungers  gathered  about  the  door  of  Andrew  Aitken's 
shop,  mostly  lads  of  Jamie's  own  age,  and  they  laughed  to 
each  other  as  they  saw  him  go  by.  He  never  forgathered 
with  them,  and  so  they  disliked  and  made  fun  of  him 
just  because  they  knew  so  little  of  him.  Sandy,  on  the 
contrary,  was  a  prime  favourite  with  them  all ;  he  had  a 
fine,  open,  happy-go-lucky  way  with  him  which  took  the 
edge  off  the  patronizing  airs  he  had  adopted  towards  the 
village  lads  since  he  had  gone  to  teach  in  the  Markinch 
school.  The  lamp  was  lighted  in  John  Bethune's 
kitchen,  and  the  light  shone  steadily  through  the  white 
blind,  and  made  a  bright  pathway  across  the  garden. 
lUit  somehow  Jamie  felt  no  inclination  to  go  in ;  he 
knew  very  well  he  should  find  his  father  and  aunt 
discussing  Sandy's  future;  and  he  did  not  feel  that 
interest  in  it  which  he  told  himself  he  ought  to  feel. 
So  he  stole  quietly  round  the  end  of  the  cottage,  and, 
walking  to  the  foot  of  the  yard,  leaned  up  against  the 
dyke,  and  looked  away  across  the  moss,  which  lay  bathed 
in  the  glory  of  the  harvest  moon.  It  was  a  night  of 
rare  beauty,  and  the  air,  without  being  cold,  was  keen 
and  bracing  and  deliciously  refreshing.  James  Bethune 
had  inherited  from  his  mother  a  passionate  love  for 
nature,  and  at  times  the  moonlight  loveliness  of  a  harvest 
night  had  power  to  move  him  to  the  inmost  soul.  Not 

5 


50  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

so  to-night.  He  was  wretched,  and  his  heart  was  filled 
with  thoughts  for  which  he  hated  himself.  It  was  no 
new  thing  for  him  to  long  for  the  advantages  so  freely 
bestowed  on  Sandy.  It  was  very  long  since  he  had  first 
envied  him  his  book-learning,  but  somehow  these  longings 
had  never  reached  such  a  climax  before.  These  moments 
of  bitter  discontent,  of  passionate  kicking  against  our 
destiny,  are  common  to  humanity ;  but  it  is  a  surprising 
thing  how  little  sympathy  one  shows  to  another  in  such 
circumstances.  In  finely-strung  natures,  these  longings 
become  a  living  pain,  none  the  less  keen  and  unendurable 
because  it  is  dumb.  They  do  not  suffer  least  who  never 
give  their  woes  a  voice.  From  his  very  infancy  James 
Bethune  had  been  set  aside,  and  placed  second  to  his 
brother.  Sandy  had  early  exhibited  that  precocious 
cleverness  and  smartness  which  in  a  young  child  is  so 
delightful  and  fascinating,  especially  in  the  eyes  of  an 
indulgent  and  partial  parent.  John  Bethune  watched 
the  rapid  development  of  his  boy's  powers,  with  a  slow, 
quiet  joy  he  could  not  have  expressed  in  words.  The 
child,  destined  from  birth  for  the  ministry,  was  likely  to 
have  a  bright  career  before  him.  He  was  first  at  school ; 
learning  was  no  trouble  to  him,  and  he  was  reading  in 
the  '  threepenny '  before  Jamie  had  mastered  the  alphabet. 
The  younger  was  slower  in  movement,  in  speech,  in 
comprehension  ;  in  fact,  he  was  a  tortoise  beside  his  clever 
brother.  Sandy  was  forward  with  his  ability,  and  pushed 
himself  into  notice  everywhere.  When  the  minister 
made  his  periodical  visitation,  it  was  Sandy  who  went 
glibly  through  the  Catechism  for  his  benefit,  while  Jamie 
would  hang  shyly  back,  biting  his  finger,  and  refusing  to 
utter  a  word.  And  so  he  was  set  clown  as  stupid, — 
'  dull  i'  the  uptakV  as  Star  folk  had  it, — and  John  Bethune 
was  persuaded  that  ability  to  read,  write,  and  count 


TWO  SONS.  51 

;vas  education  sufficient  for  him.  He  was  removed  from 
ihe  village  school  before  he  was  twelve,  just  when  his 
mind  was  waking  up  into  greater  activity,  while  Sandy 
remained  to  attain  still  greater  proficiency  in  the  common 
subjects,  and  to  receive  the  rudiments  of  Latin  and 
mathematics  from  Mr.  Farquhar.  When  he  was  thirteen, 
he  went  down  to  teach  the  younger  classes  in  the  Mark- 
inch  school,  receiving,  in  return,  instruction  in  all  the 
higher  branches,  and  thus  laying  a  good  foundation  for 
his  college  life.  And  while  Sandy,  well  dressed  and 
cared  for,  went  like  a  gentleman  to  his  light  labour,  and 
had  liberty  to  study  all  evening  if  he  liked,  Jamie  was 
kept  hard  at  work  on  the  land  in  the  summer-time,  and 
at  the  loom  every  spare  moment.  His  reading  was 
taken  on  the  sly.  Many  a  time  had  he  carried  a  book 
with  him  to  the  field  when  he  was  supposed  to  be  hoeing, 
and  steal  an  hour  for  which  he  had  to  make  up  by 
working  after-hours.  Against  his  way  of  life  Jamie 
Bethune  never  dreamed  of  complaining.  He  was  one 
of  these  still,  reserved  natures  which  live  within  them- 
selves, and  are  only  revealed  to  a  very  few,  sometimes 
to  none.  But  his  heart  knew  its  own  bitterness,  and 
there  were  wells  of  feeling  and  possibilities  in  the  lad 
undreamed  of  by  those  among  whom  he  lived.  In  all 
this  John  Bethune  had  no  thought  of  wronging  his 
younger  son.  He  simply  saw  in  him  a  commonplace 
lad,  who  could  work  with  his  hands,  and  who  showed  no 
decided  bent  in  any  direction.  And  since  Sandy  was  so 
undoubtedly  a  scholar,  he  thought  he  was  doing  his 
duty  by  both.  Sandy  should  be  fitted  to  make  his 
mark  in  a  higher  walk  in  life,  while  Jarnie  should  be 
left  with  the  land  and  the  loom,  at  which  he  could  make 
a  good  livelihood ;  probably  the  Star  would  hold  him  all 
his  days.  Such  was  the  good  man's  idea,  and  he  placidly 


52  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

made  his  plans,  and  strove  to  execute  them,  only  asking 
that  he  might  be  spared  to  see  his  sons  come  to  man's 
estate,  and  occupying,  each  in  his  own  sphere,  honourable 
positions  in  life.  Such  unconscious  wrongs  are  often 
done  under  a  strong  sense  of  duty.  But  their  results 
are  not  the  less  grievous,  because  the  motive  which 
prompts  them  happens  to  be  generous  and  pure. 

With  his  elbows  leaning  on  the  mossy  wall,  James 
Bethune  wrestled  with  the  first  problem  life  had  presented 
to  him.  He  felt  within  him  the  stirrings  of  manhood, 
and  there  whispered  to  him  visions  of  great  achievements, 
of  noble  aims,  and  vague  but  loveliest  possibilities  which 
the  lad  himself  could  scarcely  understand.  Only  he 
knew  that  he  was  miserable  in  the  Star,  and  that  his 
mind  dwelt  continually  upon  the  wider  sphere  which  he 
knew  was  to  be  found  in  the  world  beyond  the  quiet 
hamlet  which  was  supposed  to  be  large  enough  for  him. 
He  had  read  again  and  again  in  his  father's  books  of 
men  who  had  risen  from  the  veriest  obscurity,  and  had 
been  enabled,  by  their  own  sheer  industry  and  force  of 
character,  to  shape  the  destinies  of  nations. 

The  majority  of  these  great  minds,  both  in  his  own 
and  other  times,  had  struggled  with  early  disadvantages, 
and  in  that  very  struggle  had  won  their  mightiest  power. 
Why  should  not  he  put  his  hand  to  the  plough,  and 
make  a  desperate  effort  after  something  beyond  the 
meagre  trammels  of  his  existence  ? 

'I'm  a  fule!'  he  muttered,  in  very  scorn  of  himself. 
'  I'll  think  nae  mair  aboot  it.  The  mistress  is  maybe 
richt.  Maybe  this  is  the  place  for  me  after  a'.' 

Looking  across  the  moss  again  he  saw  two  figures  coming 
leisurely  up  the  path.  In  the  glorious  light  it  was  easy 
to  distinguish  them  as  his  brother  and  Mary  Campbell. 
He  could  even  see  that  Sandy  had  his  arm  round  the 


TWO  SONS.  53 

girl's  waist,  and  that  their  heads  were  very  close  together. 
A  slight  bitterness  dwelt  for  a  moment  in  his  eyes,  as 
the  thought  came  that  everything  seemed  to  be  given  to 
Sandy,  without  any  trouble  on  his  part  to  obtain  it. 
Not  that  he  was  in  the  remotest  degree  jealous,  or 
interested  beyond  ordinary  in  Mary  Campbell,  only  it 
seemed  to  fit  in  with  the  rest  of  his  thoughts. 

'Were  I  Sandy/  he  said  to  himself  as  he  went  away 
to  the  house,  '  I  wadna  hae  naething  to  dae  wi'  lassies 
for  ten  year  to  come.  Hoo  can  he  ken  his  ain  mind  at 
seeventeen  ?  He'll  change  fifty  times  afore  he's  thirty.' 

Nine  was  striking  as  he  went  into  the  house,  and  he 
found  his  father  waiting  with  the  Bible  in  his  hand,  his 
aunt  having  evidently  gone  to  bed. 

'  Whaur's  Sandy  ? '  asked  his  father  rather  sternly. 
'  It's  efter  nine — time  we  were  a'  in  oor  beds.' 

'  He'll  be  here  the  noo,  likely,'  answered  Jamie,  sitting 
down  at  the  fire.  '  I've  been  at  the  Kiiowe.  Dauvit's  to 
be  at  the  barley  the  morn.' 

'  Ay,  that's  weel.     Is  he  a'  in  ? ' 

'  Ay,  a'  in,'  was  Jamie's  answer ;  then  the  twain 
relapsed  into  silence.  Seventeen  years  had  wrought  a 
great  change  in  John  Bethune ;  his  face  was  deeply 
furrowed,  his  hair  and  beard  almost  white,  his  figure 
much  bent  at  the  shoulders.  But  the  keen  eye  had  lost 
none  of  its  old  steady  light,  nor  were  his  forces  abated. 
He  was  still  able  for  a  good  day's  work,  though  it  told 
upon  him  more  severely  than  when  he  was  in  his  prime. 
He  turned  over  the  leaves  to  the  119th  Psalm,  and  sat 
with  the  book  open,  waiting  for  Sandy.  Strict  discipline 
was  maintained  in  John  Bethune's  household,  and  though 
Sandy  was  indulged  in  some  things,  there  were  others  in 
which  he  dared  not  disobey.  It  was  a  grave  offence  to 
be  out  after  nine.  In  about  five  minutes  they  heard  the 


54  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

garden  gate  swing,  and  next  moment  Sandy  dashed  into 
the  house  in  his  usual  noisy  fashion,  banging  the  door 
behind  him. 

'  Less  din,  Sandy ;  yer  auntie's  in  her  bed.  It's 
twenty  meenits  past  nine,'  said  John  Bethune  sternly ; 
and  then,  without  waiting  for  an  explanation  or  excuse, 
began  to  read  from  the  ninth  verse  of  the  psalm.  When 
t  16  reading  was  finished  he  offered  up  his  usual  solemn 
prayer,  every  word  of  which  the  boys  knew  by  heart. 
Many  a  time  in  their  younger,  days  they  had  puzzled 
themselves  over  his  mysterious  utterances,  some  of  which 
they  scarcely  understood  yet. 

Directly  they  rose  from  their  knees  the  brothers  took 
their  candle  and  went  away  up  the  trap-stair  to  the 
garret  which  had  been  fitted  up  for  them  when  they 
grew  too  big  to  sleep  beside  their  father.  Aunt  Susan, 
as  of  yore,  occupied  the  little  chamber  opening  off  the 
kitchen.  Directly  they  were  in  their  own  humble  room, 
Jamie  began  to  undress ;  he  did  not  feel  in  a  mood  for 
talking.  But  Sandy  was  in  great  spirits,  and  rattled  on 
about  St.  Andrews,  and  about  the  college,  and  his  future, 
till  Jamie  could  have  prayed  him  to  hold  his  tongue. 

'  My  word,  Jamie,  it'll  be  a  fine  difference  to  me  living 
at  St.  Andrews.  It's  very  slow  for  a  fellow  here  when 
he  kens  as  much  as  me,'  he  said  in  his  boastful  way. 
'  Some  day  when  you're  no'  busy  ye  must  get  father  to 
let  you  come  to  St.  Andrews,  and  I'll  show  ye  the  sights. 
It's  a  bonnie  toon.  D'ye  no  wish  ye  were  me  ? ' 

'  No.  I'm  sleepy.  Be  quiet,'  said  Jamie  rather  sourly. 
'  You  havena  to  rise  at  five.  Blaw  oot  the  caun'le.' 

Not  for  worlds  would  Jamie  have  admitted  to  his  brother 
that  he  envied  him  his  privileges,  and  that  he  found  it  so 
hard  to  wish  him  well.  The  lad  had  two  enemies  to 
contend  with — his  own  discontent  and  his  bitterness 


TWO  SONS.  55 

against  his  brother,  who  he  knew  regarded  him  with  a 
species  of  good-natured  contempt.  Sandy  blew  out  the 
candle  and  discreetly  crept  into  bed.  When  he  saw 
Jamie  vexed  he  always  held  his  peace,  because  he  knew 
that  something  serious  was  at  the  bottom  of  it. 

'  I'm  vext  I  was  sae  short,  Sandy,'  said  Jamie  by  and 
by,  after  a  brief,  sharp  struggle  with  himself.  '  I  houp 
ye'll  get  on,  an'  win  a  lot  o'  prizes  at  St.  Andrews,  an' 
get  a  graund  kirk  efter  ye're  through.' 

'  I'll  try,  man  ;  an'  of  course,  whatever  happens,  you  an' 
me'll  aye  be  the  same.  An'  ye'll  come  an'  bide  wi'  me 
at  my  manse,  maybe,  when  somebody  ye  ken's  a  minister's 
wife,'  said  Sandy  in  an  unusual  burst  of  confidence. 

'  Well  see/  said  Jamie  with  a  laugh.  So,  friends 
once  more,  they  turned  over  and  fell  asleep. 


CHAPTER   V. 


SYMPATHY. 

'A  hand  was  laid 
In  tfiiJerness  on  his  sore  heart; 
A  voice  said,  Courage  take  ! 
The  world  is  wide.    There  may  be  room  for  theft* 


[HAT'S  Sandy  sayin'  til't  the  day  ?'  inquired 
Susan  Bethune  one  fine  summer  morning, 
when  her  brother  entered  the  house  with 
his    student    son's    weekly    letter  in   his 
hand.     The  old  man's  face  was  so  radiant, 
his  manner  so  excited  and  eager,  that  involun- 
tarily Susan  put  more  interest  than  usual  into 
her  question. 

'  Graund  news,  Shoosan.  He's  gotten  a  bursary  worth 
thirty  pound  a  year  for  twa  year.  I  kent  it  was  in 
the  laddie.  I  wadna  wunner  to  seo  him  principal  o' 
St.  Mary's  himsel'  yet ! '  exclaimed  John  Bethune,  and, 
reaching  his  spectacles,  he  proceeded  to  read  out  the 
letter  to  his  sister,  pausing  every  moment  or  so  to  call 
her  attention  to  the  beautiful  flourishes  in  the  hand- 

66 


SYMPATHY.  57 

writing  and  the  fine  construction  of  the  letter.  It  was  a 
touching  and  beautiful  thing  to  see  the  old  man's  pride 
in  his  boy's  accomplishments  and  success ;  there  were 
actually  tears  in  his  eyes  as  he  read  and  reread  the 
precious  epistle ;  and,  seeing  that,  Susan  Bethune  was 
struck  to  the  heart  by  a  strange  sense  of  uneasiness  which 
was  almost  pain. 

'  Eh,  but  ye  are  bound  up  in  Sandy,  John,'  she  said, 
and  almost  unconsciously  she  shook  her  head  as  she 
spoke. 

'It's  no'  a  sinfu'  pride,  Shoosan.  I  dinna  pit  him 
afore  his  Maker,'  said  John  Bethune,  half  arrested  by 
her  words.  '  An'  I  hae  reason  to  be  prood  ;  d'ye  no' 
think  it  ? ' 

'  Ay.  He's  a  wunnerfu'  duel'  for  heid  wark,'  Susan 
admitted,  and  her  eyes  wandered  to  the  window,  from 
which  she  could  see  Jamie  with  his  scythe  in  the  grass 
field.  The  thought  in  her  mind  at  the  moment  was 
whether  Jamie  might  not  have  done  as  well  had  he  had 
his  brother's  chance.  Susan  Bethune  was  a  woman  who 
kept  her  own  counsel,  and  never  spoke  unless  with  good 
reason,  but  for  all  that  she  had  observed  and  resented 
the  distinction  her  brother  had  made  between  his  boys 
all  their  lives.  She  supposed  Sandy  lay  nearest  his 
father's  heart  because  of  his  close  resemblance  to  Katie, 
and  she  did  not  blame  him  for  that.  Susan  Bethune 
was  very  tender  now  in  all  her  thoughts  of  her  brother's 
dead  wife.  But  she  did  wonder  that  a  Christian  man, 
and  an  elder  in  the  kirk,  should  be  so  indulgent  to  the 
one  and  so  hard  upon  the  other,  who,  like  the  elder 
brother  of  Holy  Writ,  was  always  with  him,  labouring 
for  his  good  early  and  late.  Not  that  Sandy  could  be 
compared  to  the  prodigal  by  any  means,  only  he  had 
always  been  more  of  a  care  and  trouble  to  his  folk ; 


58  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

falling  far  short  of  Jamie  in  obedience  and  willingness  to 
do  what  was  required  of  him.  Jamie  was  Aunt  Susan's 
favourite,  and  out  of  her  deep  love  she  watched  him 
when  he  thought  he  was  least  observed,  until  she  had 
arrived  at  a  pretty  correct  conclusion  concerning  him. 
She  saw  him  restless  and  discontented  even  when  he 
made  least  sign ;  she  watched  the  gradual  decay  of 
interest  in  the  croft,  the  loss  of  that  cheerful  readiness  to 
perform  and  even  to  anticipate  all  his  father's  desires,  and 
her  heart  grew  very  heavy  about  the  lad.  She  never 
dreamed  of  uttering  her  sympathy,  or  of  seeking  to  win 
his  confidence ;  she  belonged  to  a  stern,  undemonstrative 
race,  who  deemed  any  exhibition  of  the  finer  feelings  a 
sign  of  weakness ;  nevertheless  her  dumb  compassion  and 
silent  sympathy  found  vent  in  ways  of  their  own,  such 
as  little  attentions  paid  to  his  creature  comforts,  and 
little  gifts  now  and  again,  which  rather  surprised  Jamie, 
though  he  did  not  in  the  least  understand  the  motive 
which  prompted  his  aunt  to  bestow  them. 

'He'll  be  hame  next  week,  he  says,  for  twa- three 
days,'  said  John  Bethune  presently.  '  There's  mair 
news  even  than  the  bursary  in't.  He's  gotten  what  he 
ca's  a  holiday  engagement  to  gang  to  the  Heelan's  to  tutor 
a  gentleman's  twa  sons.  They're  at  tl*e  schule  in  St 
Andrews,  an'  their  faither  disna  want  them  to  forget  a' 
their  lessons  in  the  holidays,  so  he  has  hired  Sandy  to 
keep  them  at  them,  an'  gang  aboot  wi'  them  in  the 
holidays.  It'll  be  a  fine  thing  for  him,  but  I  was 
coontin'  on  haein'  him  at  hame  for  twa  month  at 
least.' 

'  Ay,'  said  Susan ;  for  somehow  she  felt  relieved  to 
hear  that  Sandy  was  not  to  spend  the  long  vacation  at 
home.  For  he  would  go  about  like  a  gentleman,  giving 
himself  doubtless  many  airs  on  account  of  his  success, 


SYMPATHY.  59 

while  Jamie  would  be  in  the  throng  of  the  harvest.  In 
her  jealous  love  for  her  favourite,  Susan  Bethune  was 
perhaps  a  trifle  hard  upon  Sandy. 

'  I'll  awa'  an'  tell  Jamie.  He'll  be  as  prood  as  a 
prince,'  said  John  Bethune,  rising ;  and  Susan  watched 
him  go  down  the  fields,  and  saw  Jamie  leaning  on  his 
scythe,  while  his  father  imparted  his  grand  news  of 
Sandy's  success.  Then,  suddenly  recollecting  how  she 
was  putting  off  her  time,  she  began  to  prepare  the 
vegetables  for  the  broth  in  rather  an  abstracted  fashion, 
for  the  interests  clustering  about  her  brother's  sons  were 
very  absorbing  that  morning.  While  she  was  thus 
engaged,  John  returned,  not  looking  quite  so  well  pleased 
as  when  he  went  out 

'  Jamie's  a  queer  stick,  Shoosan,'  he  said  rather  drily. 
'  Gie  him  wark,  an'  it's  a'  he  cares  about.  He  had  hardly 
a  word  to  say  ower  Sandy's  fortune.  My !  but  there's  a 
bonnie  difference  atween  them.' 

'  No'  sae  muckle  as  ye  think,  John,'  Susan  was  tempted 
to  say.  'Dinna  let  yer  pride  in  the  ane  blind  ye  to  ony 
guid  in  the  ither.' 

'  No,  no ;  Jamie's  a  guid,  honest,  hard-workin'  chield. 
Puir  chap,  it's  no'  his  faut  he  hasna  a  heid  like  his 
brither,'  said  John  Bethune  placidly.  '  It's  a  wise  ordi- 
nation o'  Providence  that  there  should  be  folk  for  a' thing. 
Jamie  '11  mak'  a  gey  canty  bit  leevin'  here,  as  I've  dune 
afore  him.  But  I'll  awa  up  an'  tell  Dauvit  Cam'll. 
They'll  be  as  pleased  as  oorsel's.' 

So  saying,  the  old  man  put  his  letter  and  his  spectacles 
in  his  breast  pocket,  and  went  away  to  get  the  kindly 
neighbours  at  the  Knowe  to  share  in  his  joy.  Very  often 
that  forenoon  did  Susan  Bethune  look  through  the  little 
window  and  across  the  fields  to  the  park  where  Jamie 
was  employed.  She  saw  that  he  was  making  little 


60  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

speed,  and  that  very  often  he  stood  quite  still,  as  if 
absorbed  in  thought.  And  her  heart  grew  heavier  still 
about  the  lad.  When  he  came  in  to  his  dinner,  she 
looked  kindly  at  him,  but  did  not  mention  the  bursary 
to  him ;  but  it  was  the  old  man's  whole  talk  during  the 
dinner  hour,  and  again  at  tea-time,  and  Susan  Bethune 
saw  that  Jamie's  interest  in  the  matter  was  forced. 

'  Whaur  are  ye  gaun,  Jamie  ? '  she  asked,  when  he  was 
leaving  the  house  again  after  work  hours.  '  I  was 
wunnerin'  if  ye  wadna  gang  east  to  Auchtermairnie  wi' 
me  the  nicht.  Robert  Tullis,  the  baker,  brocht  word 
that  yer  uncle  Peter's  wife's  geyan  ill.  I'd  need  to  gang 
an'  speer  for  her.' 

'  I'll  no'  gang  the  nicht,  auntie,  unless  ye  want  me 
very  muckle,'  said  Jamie,  who  was  always  kind  and 
considerate  to  his  aunt. 

'  Are  ye  no'  weel,  my  man  ? '  she  asked  kindly. 

'  I'm  quite  weel.  I'm  gaun  ower  the  moss,  maybe 
as  far  as  Kirkforthar,'  answered  Jamie.  '  But  if  ye 
want  me  to  gang  east,  I'll  gang.' 

'  I'm  no'  parteeklar,  but  I  dinna  like  ye  to  gang  about 
sae  dowie-like  yer  lane.  Ye're  no'  half  sae  cheery  as 
ye  used  to  be.' 

He  smiled  a  dreary  smile  and  vanished,  knowing 
that  in  another  moment  he  would  forget  his  eighteen 
years,  and  give  way  to  tears.  We  have  all  known  such 
weak  moments,  have  felt  at  times  that  the  four  walls  of 
a  house  could  not  hold  us.  We  have  had  experiences 
in  which  uttered  sympathy  could  not  reach  us,  when 
we  have  only  found  strength  in  the  wideness  of  the 
pitying  skies,  comfort  in  the  dumb  sympathy  of  the 
stars. 

James  Bethune  took  his  favourite  way  to  the  peat 
moss,  walking  on  quickly  until  he  reached  a  little 


SYMPATHY.  61 

wooded  hillock,  among  whose  hospitable  trees  the  cuckoo 
had  sought  her  nest  for  the  first  time  within  his  know- 
ledge. He  threw  himself  face  downwards  on  the  turf,  and 
there  lay,  battling  dumbly  with  the  passionate,  miserable 
yearnings  of  his  soul.  He  felt  amazed  and  terrified  at  the 
wildness  of  his  own  imaginings,  at  the  darkness  of  the 
thoughts  whirling  in  his  brain.  He  was  at  war  with  all 
the  world,  and  felt  himself  an  Ishmaelite,  whom  every 
man's  hand  was  against.  Nobody  cared  for  him,  nobody 
would  mourn  him  though  he  were  dead  and  buried  ;  they 
might  miss  his  labour,  as  they  would  miss  that  of  any 
of  the  animals  on  the  farm,  but  that  would  be  all. 
That  was  one  of  the  darkest  hours  in  James  Bethune's 
life,  upon  which  he  never  afterwards  cared  to  reflect. 
He  hated  himself  for  his  hard,  unholy  thoughts,  for  his 
bitterness  against  his  father  and  his  brother,  but  he  felt 
powerless  to  curb  them.  All  kindlier  feelings  seemed 
to  have  died  within  his  breast.  But  it  was  not  so. 
A  step  sounded  behind  him,  a  kind  hand  fell  on  his 
shoulder,  a  familiar  voice  called  him  by  name.  It  was 
the  touch  and  the  voice  of  Mr.  Farquhar,  the  school- 
master. 

'  Look  at  this  plant,  Jamie.  I  have  been  in  search  of 
it  since  ever  I  came  to  Star.  Isn't  it  strange  that  I 
should  have  found  it  to-night,  when  I  was  not  particularly 
anxious  about  it  ?' 

Jamie,  who  had  not  yet  quite  lost  his  old  respect  and 
wholesome  awe  of  the  schoolmaster,  picked  himself  up, 
and  touched  his  cap.  Mr.  Farquhar  sat  down  on  the 
bank,  and  motioned  the  lad  to  a  place  beside  him.  He 
was  keenly  observant  of  his  pale  face  and  clouded 
eyes,  but  he  made  no  sign  that  he  saw  anything 
amiss. 

'This    is    an    insectivorous    plant,    James,'    said    Mr. 


62  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

Farquhar,  touching  the  leaves  with  caressing  finger. 
'  It  eats  insects.  Flies  and  such  like  alight  on  it,  and 
are  instantly  sucked  into  this  hollow,  see !  When  the 
leaves  expand  again  the  insect  is  dead,  and  the  greedy 
plant  ready  for  another.  Curious,  isn't  it  ?  I  knew  it 
was  to  be  found  on  the  moss,  and  I  came  on  it  to-night 
quite  by  accident.' 

'  I've  seen  that  growin'  often.  I  could  hae  showed  it 
to  you,  but  I  didna  ken  it  ate  flees,'  said  Jamie  with 
interest.  '  I  can  show  you  where  the  bonniest  ferns 
grow  tae,  if  ye  like.' 

'  Thank  you,  I  shall  be  glad  to  take  advantage  of  your 
offer.  I  have  often  wanted  a  crack  with  you  since  you 
left  school,  but  you  are  like  another  kind  of  plant,  called 
the  sensitive  plant,  which  curls  up  at  a  touch,'  said  the 
master  with  a  quiet  laugh.  '  What  have  you  tc:en  doing 
all  these  years  since  you  left  school  ?  not  keeping  up  your 
lessons,  I  suppose  ? ' 

'  I  read  as  muckle  as  I  can,  but  I  havena  muckle 
time,  ye  ken,'  answered  Jamie,  the  master's  interested 
voice  and  kindly  eye  winning  his  confidence  at 
once. 

'  No,  I  see  you  on  the  fields  early  and  late,'  said  the 
master.  '  But  in  winter  you  will  have  some  time  to 
yourself  in  the  evenings,  surely  ? ' 

'Ay,  when  I'm  no'  at  the  loom,'  answered  Jamie. 
'  But  it's  slow  wark  gettin'  on  yersel'.' 

'  Your  brother  is  doing  great  things  at  college,  I  was 
very  pleased  to  hear  to-day,'  said  the  master.  '  Has  he 
never  helped  you  on  ? ' 

'  Oh  no !  I  wadna  ask  him,'  said  Jamie  hastily,  and  a 
quick  flush  sprang  to  his  cheek,  as  he  remembered  how 
Sandy  had  laughed  and  scoffed  once  when  he  asked  him 
to  teach  him  Latin.  '  What  does  a  plooman  or  a  farmer 


SYMPATHY.  63 

want  wi'  Latin  ? '  he  had  said ;  '  if  ye  maim  read  ye 
should  get  agricultural  books,  Jamie,  aii'  no'  fash  yer 
heid  wi'  Latin.  Ye  wadna  be  lang  o'  tirin'  o'd 
onyway.' 

'  Would  you  like  to  learn  Latin,  Jamie  ? ' 

'  What  wad  I  no'  like  to  learn,  sir  ? '  fell  involuntarily 
from  Jamie's  lips,  and  a  light  sprang  into  his  eyes,  which 
made  the  master  look  at  him  with  a  deeper  interest. 
When  he  had  had  him  in  the  school,  he  had  obtained 
occasional  glimpses  of  a  brighter  intelligence,  which  had 
made  him  think  the  boy  might  turn  out  better  than  was 
expected.  But  when  he  left  school,  and  seemed  content 
to  plod  on  at  manual  labour,  the  master  concluded  that 
he  had  no  higher  aims. 

'  Has  your  brother's  success  emulated  you  with  a 
desire  after  his  scholarship  ? '  he  asked,  more  to  draw 
the  lad  out  than  from  any  idea  that  such  a  thing  seemed 
probable. 

'  No.  I  wad  hae  bidden  at  the  schule,  Mr.  Farquhar, 
if  I  could.  I  canna  bear  workin'  on  the  laund  nor  at 
the  loom.  It  mak's  me  feel  that  wild  and  wicked  whiles, 
I'm  feart  at  myselV 

'  That's  bad.  Are  you  sure  it  is  not  just  that  restless- 
ness which  comes  to  most  of  us  at  one  period  of  our 
lives,  that  desire  for  change,  no  matter  what  form  it 
takes  ? '  asked  the  master  kindly. 

'  I  dinna  think  it's  that.  I  wadna  leave  the  Star  to 
work  at  onything  else  if  I  couldna  get  to  books,'  answered 
Jamie,  eager  to  vindicate  himself,  and  forgetting  in  this 
new  joy  of  confidence  that  he  was  making  known  his 
most  cherished  and  secret  dreams. 

'  Does  your  father  know  of  this,  Jamie  ? ' 

'  No ;  an'  he  wadna  believe  it  though  he  was  telt.  He 
thinks  Sandy's  gotten  a'  the  brains,  an'  that  I'm  only  fit 


64  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

for  the  harrows  or  the  loom,'  said  Jamie,  not  bitterly, 
but  with  a  kind  of  sad  conviction  which  touched  the 
heart  of  the  master  not  a  little.  '  I  am  stupider  than 
Sandy,  sir ;  but  if  aince  I  get  a  grip  o'  a  thing  I  never 
let  it  go.  It  micht  tak'  me  langer  to  be  a  scholar, 
but  I  believe  I  wad  succeed  in  the  end.' 

'  And  what  bent  does  your  inclination  take  ?  "Would 
you  follow  the  vocation  Sandy  has  chosen  ? ' 

'  Oh  no,  I  couldna  be  a  minister ;  I  think  a  man 
maun  be  by-ordinar'  in  a'thing  afore  he  tak's  that  upon 
him,'  was  the  lad's  answer.  '  I  dinna  ken  exactly  what 
I  wad  dae  ;  I  whiles  think  I ' — 

But  here  he  paused  abruptly,  and  his  face  flushed 
again.  He  had  curbed  himself  just  in  time,  for  that 
fond  dream  was  too  wild  and  presumptuous  to  be 
breathed  to  mortal.  The  schoolmaster,  with  that  rare 
delicacy  characteristic  of  his  fine  nature,  did  not 
press  the  question,  understanding  perfectly  the  lad's 
reticence.  To  say  he  was  amazed  at  the  revela- 
tions of  Jamie  Bethune's  nature  scarcely  describes  his 
feelings. 

'  Suppose  we  make  a  bargain,  Jamie,'  he  said ;  '  you 
will  help  me  in  my  botanizing  and  fern-hunting,  and 
I'll  help  you  with  your  lessons.  Could  you  come  an  hour 
two  or  three  times  a  week,  and  we'll  try  our  hand  at 
Latin  and  whatever  else  we  may  fancy,  eh  ?' 

The  lad's  face  flushed  deep  crimson,  and  the  master 
saw  his  sunbrowned  hands  tremble. 

'  Nay,  don't  say  a  word.  It  will  be  a  mutual  benefit, 
for  I  am  getting  rusty  myself,'  said  the  schoolmaster, 
smiling.  '  Is  it  a  bargain,  then  ? ' 

'  If  ye  like,  sir,'  said  Jamie  quietly. 

It  might  be  a  poor  way  of  expressing  his  grateful 
appreciation  of  the  master's  offer,  but  these  two,  I  think. 


SYMPATHY.  G5 

began  to  understand  each  other  that  summer  night  on 
the  Star  moss. 

'  Are  you  going  home  now  ?  I  am,  and  we  may  as 
well  walk  together/  said  the  master.  '  This  is  a  glorious 
night,  man.  Just  look  at  Orion  and  the  Pleiades.  Do 
you  know  anything  of  astronomy,  Jamie  ? ' 

'  Some.  I  ken  the  big  planets.  My  father  has  a 
book  on't,  I  whiles  read/  answered  the  lad.  '  I  aye  think, 
Mr.  Farquhar,  that  there  couldna  be  a  bonnier  picter 
than  the  sun  settin  on'  the  Lomond  Hill,  in  the  simmer 
when  the  heather's  oot.' 

'  I  agree  with  you.  When  Mrs.  Farquhar  and  I  camo 
first  to  Star,  Jamie,  we  wondered  how  we  could  live  in 
such  a  bleak,  unlovely  country ;  but  it  was  in  winter ; 
you  will  not  remember,  it  was  two  years  before  you  were 
born.  Your  father  and  I  were  married  within  a  week 
of  each  other ;  but  his  wife  was  spared  a  little  longer 
than  mine/  said  the  master,  and  he  took  off  his  hat  and 
pushed  back  his  grey  hair  from  his  brow.  '  It  is  wonder- 
ful how  we  get  used  to  things,  my  lad,  and  how  un- 
bearable agonies  become  gentlest  memories  upon  which 
we  love  to  dwell.  My  wife  learned  to  love  the  Star, 
and  because  of  that  I  have  never  cared  to  leave  it. 
People  wonder  that  I  have  never  sought  a  wider  sphere, 
but  I  have  found  it  wide  enough  for  me,  and  I  sometimes 
think  that,  though  I  have  fallen  so  far  short  of  what  I 
might  have  been,  the  place  will  not  be  any  the  worse 
though  I  have  lived  in  it  so  long.' 

'  I'm  sure  no'/  said  Jamie  fervently,  looking  with  a 
strange  new  reverence  at  the  fine  face  of  the  master, 
which  was  now  furrowed  deep  by  the  hand  of  time,  while 
his  hair  and  beard  were  whitening  fast.  He  wondered 
that  the  master  should  talk  so  unreservedly  to  him  about 
that  sorrow  which  had  sapped  the  springs  of  hope  in  the 


66  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

very  prime  of  his  days,  and  made  it  a  common  saying 
that  the  schoolmaster  had  never  held  up  his  head  since 
his  wife's  death. 

'  Well,  we  have  got  quite  friendly  over  the  insectivora, 
haven't  we  ? '  said  the  master  pleasantly  when  they 
reached  the  schoolhouse  gate.  'When  will  you  come 
and  get  your  first  lesson  ?  Not  till  your  brother  is 
away  again,  I  suppose.  Your  father  told  me  he  would 
only  be  at  home  for  a  few  days.  Come  in  whenever 
you  like.  I  am  always  at  liberty,  you  know,  between 
six  and  ten.' 

'  I'll  be  sure  to  come,  sir,  thank  ye,'  said  Jamie  grate- 
fully ;  then  with  a  warm  hand-clasp  they  parted,  friends 
for  life.  As  the  schoolmaster  entered  his  lowly  dwelling, 
he  felt  that  glow  in  his  heart  which  is  the  reward  of 
doing  good.  Apart  from  the  blessing  a  generous  action 
may  confer  on  others,  it  gives  to  him  who  is  its  author  a 
sense  of  sweet  satisfaction,  which  compensates  for  any 
sacrifice  he  may  have  made,  and  the  man  whose  life  is 
spent  in  the  planning  and  execution  of  such  deeds  lives 
perpetually  among  the  fragrant  odours  of  heaven. 

It  had  not  cost  Gilbert  Farquhar  much  to  express  a 
kindly  interest  in  his  old  pupil,  and  to  offer  to  help  him 
in  so  far  as  lay  in  his  power ;  but  it  meant  a  great  deal 
to  Jamie  Bethune.  He  did  not  go  into  the  house  just 
at  once  that  night;  but  strolled  through  the  village, 
along  the  quiet  path  by  the  burnside,  and  up  as  far  as 
Carriston  gate,  just  to  be  alone  for  a  little  with  the 
sweet  hopes  which  had  begun  to  blossom  in  his  heart. 
The  future  was  no  longer  dark  and  gloomy,  but  a  fair 
horizon,  bright  with  promise,  illumined  by  the  sunshine 
a  good  man  and  a  true  friend  had  cast  upon  it 

In  a  day  or  two  Sandy  came  home  from  college, 
flushed  with  his  success,  and  full  of  airs  and  conceits 


SYMPATHY.  67 

such  as  country  lads  are  wont  to  affect  after  a  brief  term 
of  town  life.  In  Susan's  eyes  this  conscious  and  open 
pride  spoiled  Sandy  altogether,  but  his  doting  father  saw 
no  flaw  in  the  lad,  and  would  listen  by  the  hour  to  his 
stories  of  St.  Andrews  life.  Sometimes,  in  his  desire  to 
create  an  impression,  and  to  glorify  himself,  Sandy  was 
apt  to  colour  his  statements  just  a  little,  and,  while  those 
at  home  implicitly  believed  that  he  was  the  chief  centre 
of  interest  at  St.  Mary's  College,  the  fact  was,  he  was  of 
very  little  account,  and  occupied  a  very  obscure  position 
there.  As  to  the  bursary,  it  was  too  common  an  honour 
to  be  thought  much  of,  for  the  University  was  so  richly 
endowed  that  those  who  did  not  receive  a  bursary  were 
in  the  minority.  But  Sandy  took  care  not  to  communi- 
cate that  item  to  the  Star  folk. 

Susan  Bethune  was  both  surprised  and  relieved  to  see 
how  very  little  effect  '  Sandy's  blawin','  as  she  termed  it. 
had  on  Jamie.  He  listened  to  him  with  as  much 
patience  and  interest  as  his  father  did,  and  did  not 
appear  in  the  least  envious  or  jealous.  It  seemed  to 
Aunt  Susan  as  if  he  had  become  the  possessor  of  some 
happy  secret,  which  had  imparted  to  him  a  lightness  of 
heart  she  had  never  seen  in  him  before.  His  smile  and 
laugh  were  not  now  so  rare,  and  he  had  never  been  more 
cheerful  in  his  life.  Altogether  that  week  of  Sandy's 
vacation  was  a  pleasai  t  time  for  them  all ;  nothing  what- 
ever happened  to  mar  its  harmony,  or  to  leave  a  sting 
behind. 

One  thing  shrewd  Aunt  Susan,  as  well  as  Jamie, 
observed,  that  Sandy  did  not  spend  much  of  his  time 
at  the  Knowe.  Aunt  Susan  had  never  at  any  time 
entertained  the  idea  that  there  could  be  anything  serious 
between  Sandy  and  Mary  Campbell,  they  being  but 
bairns  in  her  eyes;  but  Jamie  knew  that  his  brother 


68  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

had  talked  a  great  deal  of  nonsense  to  the  girl,  and,  as 
it  was  evident  Sandy  was  already  evincing  signs  of 
changeableness,  it  was  to  be  hoped  Mary  would  have 
sufficient  sense  just  to  accept  it,  and  laugh  over  that  old- 
time  nonsense. 

Ah,  poor  Mary !  it  had  not  been  nonsense  to  her ;  and, 
young  though  she  was,  her  heart  had  already  awakened 
to  a  woman's  love. 


CHAPTER    VI. 


A  WOMAN'S  HEART. 

'  Love,  art  them  sweet  ?    Then  bitter  death  must  be.* 

TENNYSON. 

ET  on  yer  hat,  see,  Mary,  an'  gang  doon  wi' 
the  maister  to  the  schule,'  said  Jean 
Campbell  to  her  niece. 

'  No,  auntie,  I'm  no'  gaun,'  answered 
Mary  in  a  low  voice,  and  she  bent  her  head 
over  the  flowers  in  the  window  to  hide  her 
wet  eyes  and  her  quivering  lips. 

'  What  for  no'  ?  It's  an  unco'  like  thing  if  ye'll 
no'  gang  to  hear  Sandy  Bethune  preach.  My  certy ! 
I've  seen  the  day  ye  wad  hae  walkit  to  Cupar 
an'  back  for  less,'  said  the  mistress  with  good-natured 
sarcasm. 

'  I  canna  help  it,  auntie  ;  I'm  no'  gaun,'  answered  the 
girl  in  a  low  voice,  but  firmly  as  before. 

'  Aweel,  ye're  maybe  richt.  It's  aicht  days  past 
on  Friday  since  he  cam'  hame,  an'  he's  never  lookit 
yer  airt.  My  lassie,  ye're  quite  richt  to  bide  at 


70  THE  GATES  OF  EDEK 

hame ;  an'  when  he  does  condescend  to  speak  to  ye 
jist  you  lat  him  see  the  wrang  side  o'  yer  face  foi 
a  change.' 

Mary  made  no  response,  but,  with  her  eyes  still  down- 
bent,  she  absently  picked  the  dead  leaves  from  the 
geraniums  and  laid  them  in  a  little  heap  on  the  table. 
Perhaps  they  were  emblematical  of  her  withered  hopes. 
It  was  now  five  years  since  Sandy  Bethune  had  left  the 
Star,  and,  after  an  eminently  successful  college  career,  he 
had  entered  on  his  final  term  of  theological  study  at  the 
Divinity  Hall  in  Edinburgh.  During  these  years  he  had 
been  comparatively  little  at  home.  Visits  to  college 
friends  or  holiday  engagements  filled  up  his  summer 
vacation,  and  in  winter  he  pleaded  press  of  study  as  an 
excuse  for  his  neglect  of  the  Star.  His  father,  who 
implicitly  believed  in  him  still,  submitted  without  a 
murmur,  though  his  heart  often  ached.  Yet,  since  he  had 
consecrated  his  first-born  son  to  the  Church  and  her 
ministry,  he  must  bear  the  pain  which  at  times  the 
surrender  cost.  He  had  not  thought  he  would  have  been 
called  upon  to  give  him  up  so  entirely.  He  was  getting 
very  old  now,  and  in  his  age  felt  a  greater  need  of 
affection  than  in  the  days  of  his  manhood's  strength. 
Yet,  though  Jamie  was  still  at  home,  taking  entire 
management  of  all  home  affairs,  and  relieving  his  father 
in  every  possible  way,  there  was  not  that  full  confidence 
between  them  which  might  have  been  a  joy  to  them  both. 
John  Bethune  knew  nothing  of  his  second  son's  inner 
self ;  he  was  never  admitted  to  the  secret  recesses  of  a 
noble  soul,  preparing  itself  to  do  battle  with  the  world 
by  and  by.  He  had  himself  to  blame.  He  had  not 
only  preferred  the  elder  in  every  way,  but  he  had  mis- 
jnHged  Jamie,  and  kept  him,  in  a  manner,  shut  out  of 
his  heart.  The  lad's  sensitive  heart  had  been  early 


A   WOMAN'S  HEART.  71 

wounded,  and  had  grown  a  little  hard  perhaps  where  his 
father  was  concerned.  It  contained  wells  of  affection 
never  yet  opened,  and  which  were  undreamed  of  by 
Jamie  himself.  But  though  his  father  was  neither 
his  confidant  nor  his  friend,  he  never  failed  in  duty 
towards  him ;  nay,  it  was  that  strong  sense  of  duty, 
which  was  the  chief  part  of  James  Bethune's  religion, 
which  still  kept  him  in  the  Star.  He  saw  his  father 
failing,  and  knew  that  if  he  were  bereft  of  both  his 
sons,  he  would  go  down,  like  Israel  of  old,  in  sorrow 
to  the  grave.  For  in  all  temporal  affairs  the  old  man 
leaned  upon  him;  he  had  given  up  the  work  of  life 
into  his  hands. 

That  true  friend  and  good  man,  Gilbert  Farquhar,  the 
schoolmaster,  was  now  dead  ;  none  but  James  Bethune 
himself  knew  how  great  and  irreparable  was  his  loss.  He 
had  done  what  he  could  to  help  the  lad  in  his  struggle, 
and  had  put  him  on  the  path  of  knowledge,  and  only 
left  him  when  he  was  able  to  walk  through  its  mazes 
unaided.  Not  a  living  soul  knew  of  James  Bethune's 
attainments  and  proficiency  as  a  scholar.  He  was 
respected  in  the  Star  as  a  steady,  well-behaved  young 
man,  who  would  rather  sit  at  the  fireside  with  a 
book,  or  in  the  summer  -  time  take  lonely  walks, 
than  join  the  jovial  crew  who  were  to  be  found  any 
and  every  night,  Sunday  excepted,  in  Jean  Brunton's. 
He  was  altogether  lost  sight  of  in  the  splendours  of 
Sandy's  genius,  but  it  was  a  common  saying  in  the 
place  that  '  John  Bethune  was  by-ordinar'  weel  aff  wi' 
his  laddies.' 

There  was  great  excitement  in  the  Star  when  it  was 
announced  that  Sandy  Bethune  would  conduct  a  '  preach- 
ing' in  the  school  the  second  Sunday  after  his  return 
home  for  the  holidays.  Mr.  Bell  announced  it  from  his 


72  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

pulpit,  and  it  was  a  moment  or  two  before  his  hearers 
could  think  who  Mr.  Alexander  Bethune  could  be.  In 
the  summer  evenings  the  preachings  held  periodically  in 
the  Star  school  were  very  meagrely  attended,  the  young 
folks  preferring  walking  or  lounging  about  the  roads.  But 
both  old  and  young  turned  out  to  hear  Sandy  Bethune 
preach,  for  he  was  one  of  themselves. 

'  "Weel,  I  maun  gang,  Mary,'  said  the  mistress.  '  I 
wad  gang  faurer  than  the  schule  to  hear  John  Bethune's 
son  preach.  Had  his  mother  lived,  she  wad  hae  been  a 
prood  wummin  the  day.  But  I  dinna  ken  either,'  she 
added  with  an  involuntary  sigh ;  '  it  has  its  draw- 
backs to  hae  a  by-ordinar'  bairn.  I  wadna  be  sur- 
prised, noo,  to  be  telt  that  Sandy  thinks  shame  o'  his 
ain  folk.' 

'  We'll  hae  to  be  stappin',  then,  guidwife,'  said  the 
master,  coming  in  from  the  door.  '  The  hale  wast  end's 
awa'  by.  The  lad's  mettle  '11  be  tried  the  nicht.  What ! 
Is  Mary  no'  gaun  ? ' 

'  No,  she's  no'  gaun,  Dauvit.  Awa'  an'  get  on  your 
black  coat,  see.  Ye're  no'  gaun  doon  wi'  that  auld 
jaicket/  said  the  mistress,  diverting  his  attention  at  once 
from  Mary.  '  For  the  auld  man's  sake,  we  maun  pay 
the  chield  every  respeck.' 

In  a  few  minutes  the  worthy  couple  left  Mary  to  her 
own  meditations,  and  the  first  thing  she  did  was  to  put 
the  bar  in  the  door,  and  then,  sitting  down  in  her  uncle's 
chair,  she  laid  her  bonnie  head  down  on  the  table,  and 
began  to  cry  quietly  to  herself,  for  her  heart  was  very 
sore. 

Her  aunt  had  unconsciously  given  her  a  cruel  stab, 
for  until  to-night  she  had  tried  to  find  every  excuse  for 
Sandy,  and  had  buoyed  herself  up  with  hopes  which  her 
aunt's  blunt  words  had  rudely  dispelled.  If  Sandy 


A    WOMAN'S  HEART.  73 

were  ashamed  of  his  own  people,  then  doubtless  he  must 
be  ashamed  of  her.  With  the  pain  such  a  conviction 
could  not  fail  to  bring,  there  was  no  bitterness  or  resent- 
ment commingled,  for  with  that  humility  peculiar  to 
sweet,  rare  natures  such  as  hers,  she  placed  herself  on  a 
very  low  level  in  comparison  with  him  who  had  been  her 
lover  so  long.  She  knew  she  was  no  fit  companion  for 
one  so  great  and  grand  and  clever,  and  she  had  never 
dared  to  think  of  herself  as  a  minister's  wife ;  there  was 
presumption  in  the  very  thought.  But  he  had  said  so 
often  that  she  was  dear  to  him,  that  no  other  should 
ever  share  his  future,  that  she  could  not  just  at  once 
relinquish  all  thought  of  him,  all  claim  upon  him.  She 
had  not  hid  her  heart  from  him ;  he  knew  she  loved  him, 
and  she  had  never  thought  shame  of  it  till  now.  Poor 
Mary !  It  was  a  hard  cross  laid  upon  her,  and  she  was 
glad  of  the  deep  stillness  and  solitude  in  the  house 
(there  were  so  few  quiet  hours  at  the  Knowe),  so  that 
she  might  face  this  sorrow  which  had  come  into  her 
young  life,  and  if  possible  nerve  herself  for  the  future, 
robbed  of  all  the  sweetness  of  the  past.  For  nearly 
an  hour  she  sat  in  the  same  position,  and  then  she  rose 
quietly,  and  began  to  busy  herself  about  the  house. 
Once,  as  she  went  to  get  something  out  of  the  dresser, 
she  took  a  glance  into  the  little  looking-glass  against  the 
wall,  and  started  a  little  at  her  own  paleness.  She 
rubbed  her  cheeks  to  try  and  bring  back  their  colour, 
but  in  vain ;  then  she  hoped  nobody  would  notice  any- 
thing amiss  in  her  appearance.  The  worst  of  all  would 
be  if  anybody  suspected  she  was  fretting  because  Sandy 
Bethune  had  slighted  her;  her  maidenly  pride  and 
dignity  rose  at  the  very  suggestion  of  such  a  thing. 
It  was  a  very  sweet  winning  face  reflected  in  the 
little  mirror,  and  the  sunny  hair  arranged  in  smooth 

7 


74.  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

womanly  braids  was  most  becoming  to  the  neat  little 
head.  Then  her  figure  had  lost  all  the  angular  curves 
of  earlier  years ;  and  altogether  Mary  Campbell  was  a 
sweet  and  attractive  young  woman,  and  many  as  good  a 
man  would  have  given  half  his  possessions  for  Sandy 
Bethune's  chance.  But  Mary-  had  neither  looked  nor 
listened  to  any  wooing  save  his  alone ;  she  had  been 
absolutely  and  devotedly  true. 

At  seven  she  took  the  milk-pails  and  went  up  to 
the  byre.  It  took  her  about  an  hour  generally  to  milk 
the  five  cows,  and  she  was  just  finishing  the  last  when 
she  heard  voices  and  footsteps  approaching,  and  then 
half-a-dozen  folk  burst  into  the  byre,  eager  to  be  the  first 
to  give  the  news. 

'  Eh,  but  we  had  a  graund  discoorse,  Mary !  Ye  missed 
a  heap,'  cried  one. 

'  Eh,  thon's  a  deep  lad.  It's  just  exterordinar'  to  see 
him  stannin'  up  an'  settin't  aff  wi'  his  haunds  better  than 
Maister  Bell  hissel','  said  another. 

'  'Deed  he  mak's  a  show,  an'  sets  aff  a  heap  o'  braw 
words,  but  there's  no  muckle  in't  for  common  folk,'  said 
Kirsty  the  malcontent,  edging  in  her  adverse  criticism 
just  for  contrariness.  '  For  my  pairt,  I  canna  but  think 
that,  had  as  muckle  been  spent  on  oor  eddication,  we 
micht  hae  dune  mair.' 

'  It  wad  be  a  braw  sicht  to  see  you  haudin'  forth  in 
the  schule,  Kirst/  laughed  the  master,  whose  portly 
presence  at  that  moment  filled  up  the  doorway. 

'  Was  there  mony  there  ? '  Mary  forced  herself  to  ask, 
in  case  her  silence  should  be  remarked  on  by  the  argus- 
eyed  throng. 

'  Ay,  it  was  crammed  to  the  door ;  a  heap  o' 
Kennoway  an'  Markinch  folk  there  as  weel's  oor  am/ 
answered  the  maister.  '  Are  ye  dune,  Mary  ?  Awa' 


A    WOMAN'S  HEART.  75 

doon  then,  bodies,  an'  get  yer  milk,  till  I  get  the  kye 
putten  out.' 

'Ye've  been  braw  smairt,  Mary,'  said  Mrs.  Campbell, 
meeting  her  at  the  door.  '  But  it's  aicht  o'clock.  He 
keepit  us  geyan  lang,  but  we  never  wearit.  Thon's  a 
star,  lassie,'  she  added,  lowering  her  voice,  so  that 
only  Mary  heard.  '  If  only  he  has  grace  to  guide  his 
gifts.' 

Mary  set  down  her  pails,  and,  after  washing  her  hands 
and  unpinning  her  skirt,  she  put  her  little  shawl  about 
her  head,  and  stole  out  by  the  front  door,  to  be  away 
from  all  the  talk  about  the  preaching.  She  was  in  that 
half  trembling,  excited  state,  in  which  a  very  little  would 
break  her  down.  It  was  not  dark  yet ;  the  pleasant  sun- 
light seemed  loth  to  give  way  to  the  darkness,  and  so 
lingered,  even  when  the  stars  were  peeping  in  the  sky. 
It  was  a  peaceful  and  beautiful  night,  and  there  was  that 
still  ness  in  the  air  peculiar  to  the  Sabbath  day.  It  is  a 
blessed  thing  when  the  human  heart  beats  in  unison 
with  that  holy  calm.  She  wandered  up  to  the  cornyard, 
and,  leaning  up  against  one  of  the  sweet-smelling  hay- 
stacks, folded  her  arms,  and  stood  still.  She  felt  soothed 
by  the  solitude  and  by  the  hush  of  the  deepening  night, 
and  a  strength  came  to  her  which  relieved  her  burdened 
heart.  Mary  Campbell  knew  nothing  of  doctrinal  points 
such  as  Sandy  Bethune  had  been  wrestling  with  in  his 
discourse,  but  there  was  in  her  heart  a  confidence  and 
faith  in  God  which  would  have  put  his  Christianity 
to  shame.  She  firmly  believed  that  this  trial  would 
not  be  beyond  her  endurance ;  and,  without  uttering 
any  formal  petition,  she  mutely  sought  and  received 
strength  from  above.  In  this  better  frame  of  mind 
she  turned  to  go  back  to  the  house,  but,  ere  she 
had  gone  many  steps,  she  saw  a  figure  coming  up 


76  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

the  garden  path,  whose  tall  outline  was  too  familiar 
to  be  mistaken. 

'  Why  do  you  hurry  past  me,  Mary  ? '  said  a  deep, 
manly  voice,  with  an  assumption  of  playfulness.  '  Have 
you  not  a  word  to  say  to  an  old  friend  ? ' 

Mary  stood  still,  but  said  nothing.  If  she  had 
spoken,  a  little  natural  indignation  must  have  displayed 
itself,  and  she  was  determined  that  Sandy  Bethune 
should  not  see  that  she  was  in  the  least  affected  by  his 
indifference. 

'  Why  didn't  you  come  and  hear  me,  Mary  ?  That 
was  shabby.  You  promised  to  come  long  ago.' 

'We  couldna  a'  get,'  Mary  answered  quietly,  and 
beginning  to  move  on  to  the  house. 

'Don't  go  in  yet,  Mary.  I've  been  in,  and  your  aunt 
was  very  dry  to  me.  Have  I  offended  her,  do  you 
know  ? ' 

'  I  canna  say,'  was  Mary's  brief  answer. 

'  Won't  you  walk  up  the  old  road  with  me  ?  I  have 
ever  so  many  things  to  tell  you  and  to  explain.  Come 
on,'  he  added  coaxingly,  touching  her  arm  as  he 
spoke. 

Mary  hesitated ;  she  was  strongly  tempted.  Ah,  the 
familiar  voice  and  winning  way  had  not  yet  lost  their 
charm !  Sandy  noted  the  hesitation,  and  immediately 
took  her  hand  on  his  arm,  with  the  air  of  proprietorship 
she  had -been  wont  to  find  so  sweet.  So  Mary  turned 
with  1dm ;  perhaps  it  might  be  as  well  to  understand 
each  other  once  for  all. 

'  Of  course  you've  wondered  why  I've  never  been  up 
since  I  came  home,'  he  began.  '  But  the  fact  is,  a  fellow 
has  hardly  a  minute  to  himself.  I've  been  twice  to  tea 
at  the  Manse,  and  of  course  I've  had  to  go  down  and  see 
old  Robertson.  But  I  haven't  sinned  beyond  all  pardon, 


A  WOMAN'S  HEART.  77 

have  I,  Mary  ?  If  I  hadn't  known  you  to  be  so  good  and 
forgiving,  you  see,  I  wouldn't  have  dared  to  do  it,  so  you 
have  yourself  to  blame.' 

'  That's  a  queer  way  to  put  it,  Sandy.  If  you  had 
wanted  to  come,  you  would  have  found  the  time,  easy 
enough,'  said  Mary  quietly. 

'  Now  don't  be  hard  upon  me,  Mary,  when  I'm  so 
penitent.  I  was  disappointed  when  you  didn't  come  to 
the  school  to-night.  Why,  I  looked  all  over  the  place 
directly  I  came  in.' 

'  I  dinna  ken  hoo  ye  had  time  to  think  aboot  me  ava',' 
said  Mary.  c  Was  ye  no'  shakin'  wi'  nervousness  ? ' 

Sandy  laughed.  '  Not  likely.  When  a  fellow  has  to 
hold  forth  before  the  professors  and  all  the  students,  it 
isn't  a  few  Star  folk  that'll  disconcert  him.  Did  they 
think  I  did  well,  Mary?' 

'  Yes,  they  a'  seemed  weel  pleased.' 

'  Is  that  all  you'll  say  to  me,  Mary  ?  Now  you  are 
offended,  though  you  say  you're  not.  Why,  what'll  you 
do  when  you're  a  minister's  wife  ?  I  can  tell  you  a 
public  man's  wife  sees  very  little  of  him.  He  must  be  at 
everybody's  beck  and  bow.' 

'  I'll  never  be  a  minister's  wife,  so  I  needna 
fash,'  said  Mary  in  the  same  quiet,  aggravating  sort 
of  way. 

'  Dear  me !  are  you  going  to  throw  me  off  after  all  this 
time,  and  after  the  way  I've  cared  about  you,  and  trusted 
you  since  ever  we  were  anything  ? '  exclaimed  Sandy 
incredulously. 

Mary  withdrew  her  hand  from  his  arm  and  stood  still 
on  the  grassy  path.  They  were  quite  alone,  and  would  not 
likely  be  disturbed,  for  the  old  road  through  the  Knowe 
fields  was  but  little  used,  especially  on  the  Sabbath  day. 
It  was  quite  dark  now,  but  as  they  stood  in  silence  a 


73  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

moment,  the  moon  suddenly  rose  from  behind  a  cloud, 
and  shone  full  upon  them  both.  It  touched  Mary's 
sweet,  serious  face  with  a  tender  light,  and  revealed 
plainly  her  companion's  tall,  well-built  figure  and  hand- 
some, clear-cut  face.  Sandy  Bethune  had  improved 
greatly  in  personal  appearance,  and  had  quite  lost  all 
the  awkwardness  of  his  earlier  years,  and  which  still 
characterized  Jamie.  Sandy,  among  other  things,  had 
quickly  picked  up  city  polish  and  city  ways.  His  minis- 
terial garb  became  him  well,  too,  and  he  was  a  lover  of 
whom  any  girl  might  be  proud. 

'  I  want  to  speak  to  you,  Sandy,'  she  said,  looking  away 
beyond  him,  and  speaking  in  low,  clear,  firm  tones. 
'  Things  have  been  long  in  my  mind,  and  it's  time  they 
were  said.  I  think  you  an'  me's  made  a  mistake.  I've 
seen  this  long  time  that  you've  no'  been  the  same,  an'  I 
want  to  tell  you  that  I  dinna  and  wadna'  seek  to  keep 
ye  bound.  Let  me  speak,'  she  said,  raising  a  deprecat- 
ing hand,  when  he  would  have  interrupted  her, 
'an'  syne  I'll  baud  my  tongue.  I  ken  brawly  that 
I  could  never  be  a  minister's  wife,  nor  a  fit  companion 
for  you.  I  ken  naething,  nor  I  couldna  conduct 
mysel'  to  your  likin' ;  ye  wad  sune  be  ashamed  o'  me, 
an'  wish  ye  hadna  ta'en  me,  an'  I  couldna  bear  that. 
So  I  think  we'll  pairt.  Mind,  I  dinna  blame  ye ;  I  ken 
it's  me  that's  daein't,  an'  should  ye  get  anither  mair 
like  ye,  I'll  wish  her  an'  you  weeL  Ye  maun  ken  in 
yer  ain  mind  that  I'm  richt,'  she  said  more  hurriedly, 
for  the  strain  upon  her  was  very  great.  'An'  now 
I'll  awa'  in.  Guid-nicht.' 

'  Not  so  fast,  my  lady ;  there  must  be  two  to  that 
bargain,'  said  Sandy  Bethune,  for  never  had  the  girl 
before  him  seemed  so  sweet  and  dear  as  now,  when  she 
was  seeking  to  break  the  bonds  between  them.  For  the 


A  WOMAN'S  HEART.  79 

moment  he  forgot  how  often  he  had  been  ashamed 
of  her,  how  often  he  had  wished  himself  free  from 
the  tie  which  had  become  irksome  to  him,  how  often 
he  had  blamed  the  folly  which  would  give  him  a 
wife  who  would  not  grace  her  position ;  and  all  the 
old  love  came  uppermost,  sweeping  everything  before 
it.  He  folded  his  arms  about  the  slight  figure, 
and  drew  her  to  his  heart  ;  and  she  sobbed  there, 
not  seeking  to  draw  herself  away.  The  effort  she  had 
made  had  bereft  her  of  her  strength,  and  she  could 
not  keep  calm. 

'  So  you  thought  you  had  no  more  ado  than  speak  the 
word  and  I  was  off? '  he  said  tenderly.  '  My  dear,  you  do 
not  know  Sandy  Bethune  yet.  I  won't  give  you  up, 
unless  you  say  you  don't  like  me,  for  you  are  the  sweetest 
lassie  in  the  world.' 

Poor  Mary  !  She  loved  him  well,  and  these  words  fell 
upon  her  ears  like  sweetest  music,  and  for  the  moment 
every  fear,  every  misgiving,  was  set  at  rest. 

'  So  you  thought  that  because  I  was  getting  on  I  wanted 
to  throw  you  over  ?  What  an  idea  ! '  he  said  grandly,  and 
almost  convincing  himself  that  she  had  wronged  him  by 
the  thought.  '  Why,  Mary,  half  the  pleasure  of  looking 
forward  is  that  you  will  share  the  future  with  me.  Only 
two  years  more,  and  then  I'll  show  you  whether  I'm 
ashamed  of  you  or  not.  But  I'll  tell  you.  what.  I'll  lend 
you  books,  and  in  two  years  you'll  can  crow  over  me. 
And  if  you'd  only  not  speak  the  horrid  Star  Scotch,  not 
one  of  the  fine  ladies  I've  seen  could  hold  a  candle  to  you. 
Couldn't  you  try,  Mary  ? ' 

'  WThat  would  folk  say  ? '  asked  Mary  with  a  very 
doubtful  smile. 

'You  mustn't  mind  what  folk  say.  I  consider  you, 
and  you  must  consider  me,'  said  Sandy  calmly.  '  You 


80  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN 

have  such  a  sweet  voice,  that  if  you  just  talked  a  little 
more  refined,  you  would  be  quite  a  lady.' 

'  I'll  try  to  improve  myself  for  your  sake,  Sandy,'  said 
Mary  with  a  slight  sigh.  '  But  if  I'm  slow  and  stupid 
ye  mauna  be  vexed  wi'  me,  and  aye  mind  that  if  ye  think 
I  wad  be  a  hindrance  or  a  drawback  to  you,  I'll  never 
haud  ye  bound.' 

'  Now  don't  begin  that  kind  of  nonsense  again, 
Mary,'  said  the  young  man,  laying  his  hand  on  her 
lips.  '  You  are  my  own  dear  lassie,  and  I  won't 
give  you  up,  not  likely ;  that  would  be  a  pretty  mean 
thing  to  do.' 

'  Well,  if  ye  like  me  as  weel's  ye  did,  Sandy, 
I'll  say  nae  mair,'  said  Mary  with  a  half  sob  in  her 
voice.  '  It's  whiles  no'  easy  keunin'  the  richt  thing 
to  dae.' 

'  It's  easy  enough  in  this  instance :  you  must  just 
wait  till  I  get  a  kirk,  and  then  everything  '11  be  right. 
And  when  I'm  in  Edinburgh,  Mary,  if  you  don't  hear 
regularly  from  me,  you  needn't  begin  to  think  I'm 
forgetting  you,  or  any  other  absurd  notions  into  your 
foolish  little  head.  Because  I  shall  have  to  study  hard, 
you  know,  and  I'll  have  less  time  than  ever,  if  I'm  to 
do  any  good.' 

'  A'  richt,'  answered  Mary.     '  I'll  mind  what  ye  say.' 

'  And  I'll  send  you  some  books  directly  I  get  to  town, 
and  you  must  read  every  word,  mind,  and  anything  you 
don't  understand  you  must  write  to  me  about.  If  you 
write  often,  you  know,  you'll  improve  both  in  composition 
and  handwriting,  and  we'll  have  you  an  accomplished 
little  lady  in  no  time.' 

Mary  smiled.  If  she  had  been  less  meek  and  humble 
by  nature  she  would  have  resented  the  patronizing  tone 
of  her  lover's  remarks.  But  what  was  in  reality  a 


A  WOMAN'S  HEART. 


81 


species  of  shame  at  her  scanty  accomplishments,  she  took 
for  loving  interest  in  herself.  For  his  sake  she  would 
apply  herself,  and  faithfully  follow  out  his  behests,  in 
order  that  she  might  not  be  a  shame  to  him  in  that 
strange,  wonderful  life  which  one  day  they  were  to  share 
together. 


CHAPTER  VII 


CHANGE. 
'A  meek  quiet  soul  that  bore  its  burden  silently.* 

» 

WO  more  years  slipped  quietly  away,  marked 
by  only  one  event  of  family  interest  to  the 
Bethunes,  the  death  of  Peter's  wife  at 
Auchtermairnie.  She  had  been  in  feeble 
health  for  many  months,  and  the  end  was  not 
unlocked  for.  Her  last  years  had  been  embittered 
by  her  husband's  irritability  of  temper  and 
extreme  niggardliness,  which  had  increased  with  age. 
They  said  she  was  not  sorry  to  slip  away  from  life  and 
its  many  cares.  After  his  wife's  death  Peter  Bethune 
continued  to  live  alone  at  the  farm,  doing  his  own  turn, 
and  cooking  his  own  bite,  such  as  it  was, — a  drink  of 
milk  and  a  piece  of  the  coarsest  bread  sufficed  him  at 
any  time.  His  out-door  servants  would  not  stay  with 
him,  he  was  such  a  hard  taskmaster,  and  would  have 
them  up  by  daybreak,  and  working  till  dark.  Then  he 
was  always  at  their  heels,  watching  them  with  his  evil, 

82 


CHANGE.  S3 

distrustful  eye,  and  nagging  at  them  till  service  became 
irksome  and  unbearable.     He  had  no  intercourse  with 
his  neighbours,  and  seldom  went  near  his  own  kin  at  the 
Star.     Neither  did  he  trouble  the  kirk  much,  and,  as  to 
giving  aught  away,  the  very  beggars  avoided  Auchter- 
mairnie  as  if  it  had  been  plague-stricken.      Yet  still  he 
prospered  in  the  acquisition  of  worldly  wealth,  and  his 
hoard  of  gold  grew  bigger  every  day.     Few  loved,  yet 
many  pitied  Peter  Bethune,  for  he  was  that  melancholy 
spectacle  of  an  old  man  tottering  on  the  brink  of  the 
grave,  his  whole  heart  and  soul  bound  up  in  the  affairs 
of  this   world.       He   was    fast    journeying    towards    an 
eternity  of  which  he  knew  nothing,  and  for  which  he  was 
making  no  preparation.     How  different  with  his  brother, 
who  was  like  a  stook  of  corn  fully  ripe,  ready  to  be  taken 
at  the  Master's  will.     As  John  Bethune  grew  older,  his 
fine  character  received  many  a  mellowing  touch  which 
added  to  its  beauty.      He  grew  less  stern  towards  evil- 
doers, and  had  a  word  of  kindly  charity  and  pity  for  the 
most  erring.     His  manner  even  acquired  a  more  kindly 
and  gentle  tone,  and  he  made  life  sweet  indeed  for  those 
of  his  own  household.     Susan,  growing  frail  too,  could 
not  but  think  sometimes  that  John  was  getting  very  ripe 
for  heaven.      One  thing  pleased  and  satisfied  her,  that  a 
more  perfect  confidence  began  to  rise,  slowly  but  surely, 
between  Jamie  and  his  father.     Gradually  John  Bethune 
got  a  deeper  insight   into  the   mind   and   heart   of   his 
second  son,  and  found  there  much  that  surprised  him. 
He  marvelled  at  the  store  of  knowledge   the   lad   had 
made  his  own,  and  it  was  of  a  more  solid  and  lasting  nature 
than  that  which  Sandy  had  acquired  at  the  college.     For 
Jamie    had    not    only   read    intelligently,    but    he    had 
brooded   and   pondered  over   his   reading  until  he   had 
sifted  the  wheat  from  the  chaff,  and  filled  the  garner  of 


84  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

his  mind  with  choicest  seed,  which  would  one  day  bear 
its  rich  harvest. 

'  Man,  Jamie,'  his  father  would  say  to  him  at  times, 
when  perhaps  in  the  course  of  earnest  talk  he  had  let 
out  more  than  usual,  '  whaur  did  ye  learn  a'  that  ?  It's 
a  perfect  mystification  to  me.  Ye're  like  Burns,  surely, 
ye've  pickit  it  up  at  the  ploo  an'  the  harries.  Ye've  no' 
haen  that  muckle  time  o'  yer  ain.' 

'  I've  aye  had  as  muckle  as  dae  me,  faither,'  Jamie 
would  reply,  and  then  skilfully  change  the  subject.  In 
his  utter  unselfishness,  he  tried  even  to  prevent  his 
father  from  imagining  that  he  chafed  sometimes  over  the 
monotony  of  his  daily  toil,  for  James  Bethune  was  more 
than  ever  resolved  nsver  to  leave  the  old  man  while  he 
lived.  He  had  ceased  to  fret  over  the  harshness  of  his 
destiny,  though  at  times  a  wave  of  the  old  longing  would 
sweep  over  him,  and  he  would  feel  like  a  bird  beating 
his  wings  against  prison  bars,  and  panting  to  be  free. 
There  was  in  his  heart  a  deep  conviction  that  his  time 
would  come ;  and  more,  that  the  future  would  demand  all 
the  preparation  and  discipline  of  the  present.  So,  while 
he  diligently  prepared  the  soil  for  the  fruits  of  the  earth, 
a  somewhat  similar  process  was  going  on  in  his  own 
mind.  One  winter  evening  the  little  household  was 
gathered  about  the  hearth,  making  a  truly  pleasant 
picture.  In  his  own  chair  sat  the  old  man,  with  his 
elbows  leaning  on  the  arms  and  his  fingers  meeting 
together  at  the  tips.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  Jamie,  who 
was  reading  aloud  from  Mill.  On  the  other  side  of  the 
hearth  sat  Aunt  Susan,  busy  with  the  '  rig  and  fur '  of  a 
pair  of  socks  for  Sandy  (little  did  she  dream,  honest 
woman,  that,  though  Sandy  might  and  would  probably 
accept  them,  he  would  never  wear  such  homely  hose). 

Susan  Bethune  was  now  within  one  year  of  the  allotted 


CHANGE.  85 

span,  but  her  figure  still  retained  the  straightness  of 
youth.  Her  face,  however,  was  weather  -  beaten  and 
deeply  wrinkled,  and  her  hair  was  very  grey.  She  was 
knitting  busily,  but  ever  and  anon  she  paused  and  looked 
over  her  spectacles  from  father  to  son,  and  then,  giving  a 
satisfied  nod,  would  go  at  it  again  with  redoubled  energy. 
She  did  not  pretend  to  be  edified  by  what  Jamie  was 
reading,  or  even  to  understand  it,  but  it  was  enough  for 
her  to  see  that  it  interested  them.  There  was  a  striking 
resemblance  between  John  Bethune  and  his  son ;  both 
were  fine-looking  men.  Jamie  had  not,  indeed,  that 
refinement  of  appearance  so  characteristic  of  Sandy,  but 
he  had  a  powerful,  well-knit  frame,  a  grand  head,  and  an 
open,  honest  face,  lit  by  an  earnest  eye,  which  mirrored  a 
pure  and  noble  soul.  There  was  a  gentleness  in  its 
gleam  when  he  glanced  up  from  his  book  at  times,  to  ask 
his  father's  opinion  on  what  he  was  reading,  or  perhaps 
to  make  a  comment  of  his  own,  which  told  of  a  warm 
and  sympathetic  heart.  About  seven  o'clock  they  heard 
tfie  garden-gate  shut  with  a  bang,  and  next  moment 
somebody  opened  the  door  and  came  in.  Jamie  sprang 
up  and  threw  open  the  kitchen-door,  and  there  was 
Sandy  standing  in  the  little  lobby  coolly  shaking  the  snow 
from  his  overcoat  and  hat. 

'  Bless  me,  laddie,  is't  you  ? '  cried  the  old  man,  jump- 
ing up,  while  a  rare  light  of  joy  illumined  his  face. 
1  What  way  did  ye  no'  send  word,  and  Jamie  wad  hae 
been  doon  meetin'  ye  ? ' 

'  'Deed  ay.  It  seems  stormy,  tae,'  said  Jamie,  shaking 
his  brother  warmly  by  the  hand.  '  Have  ye  gotten  yer 
Christmas  holidays  ? ' 

'Not  yet.  I've  come  to  tell  you  some  news ;  guess 
what  ? '  asked  Sandy  with  a  smile.  '  Well,  Aunt  Susan, 
always  at  the  old  thing,  eh  ? ' 


86  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

1  Aye  at  it,  Sandy,  my  man.  Eh,  ye're  a  great  muckle 
chield  ;  isn't  he,  John  ? ' 

'  He  is  that,'  said  John  Bethune  delightedly,  for  his 
heart  had  filled  at  the  sight  of  his  boy.  '  Sit  doon,  man, 
an'  gie's  yer  news.  Pit  on  the  kettle,  Shoosan.' 

'  I  don't  need  anything ;  I  dined  just  before  I  left 
town,'  said  Sandy  quickly.  '  Well,  my  news  is  that  Mr. 
Alexander  Bethune,  probationer,  has  been  elected  minister 
of  Lochbroom.' 

'  Eh,  that's  graund  news !  But  whaur's  Loch- 
broom  ?  Tell's  a'  aboot  it,  quick,  man  ! '  said  his  father 
excitedly. 

'  Lochbroom  is  in  Dumfriesshire,  five  miles  from 
Lockerbie,'  Sandy  hastened  to  explain.  '  I  preached 
there  twice  in  the  vacancy,  though  I  wasn't  a  candidate ; 
you  see  I  thought  I  had  no  chalice.' 

'  Is't  a  parish  ? '  Jamie  asked. 

'Yes,  a  parish  church.  A  fine  living  it  is,  and  a 
beautiful  place,  and  not  too  far  from  Edinburgh.' 

'What's  the  steepend?'  inquired  Aunt  Susan  anxiously, 
and,  smiling,  she  pointed  to  the  old  man,  whose  eyes 
were  closed  and  his  lips  moving.  They  knew  he  was 
returning  thanks  to  the  Lord  for  His  goodness  to  him 
and  his. 

'  The  stipend  is  not  so  big  as  it  should  be — only  two 
hundred,'  said  Sandy  discontentedly.  '  But  there's  a  fine 
manse  and  a  good  glebe.  It'll  do  till  something  better 
turns  up.' 

'  Mercy  me  !  hear  till  him  ! '  exclaimed  Aunt  Susan  in 
dismay.  '  My  certy,  Sandy  Bethune !  ye're  no  blate, 
turnin'  up  yer  nose  at  twa  hunder.' 

John  Bethune  opened  his  eyes,  and  looked  at  his  son 
wistfully  and  searchingly,  as  if  he  would  read  his  inmost 
poul.  It  was  not  the  first  time  Jamie  had  seen  such  a 


CHANGE.  87 

look  on  his  father's  face  in  relation  to  Sandy.  Eight 
well  did  he  know  the  vague  feeling  of  sadness  and  dis- 
appointment which  prompted  it.  '  Hae  ye  accepted  the 
ca',  then,  Sandy  ? '  he  asked  after  a  little. 

'  Not  yet,  but  I  mean  to/  answered  Sandy.  '  Half  the 
fellows  are  wild  with  envy.  It's  not  every  one  who 
steps  in  so  easily  in  these  hard  times.  But  I  thought  I 
made  a  good  impression  when  I  was  down  last ;  they 
were  all  so  civil  to  me.  It  seems  a  nice  congregation — 
very  select.' 

'  What  micht  ye  mean  by  select,  my  man  ? '  asked  the 
old  man  mildly. 

'  Oh,  well,  they're  mostly  superior  folk — gentleman 
farmers  and  such  like ;  and  then  there  are  three  heritors, 
Sir  John  Bruce  of  Cairniehall  and  Colonel  Lewis.  They 
and  their  families,  of  course,  only  attend  for  a  month 
or  two  in  the  summer,  when  they  are  not  in  London  or 
abroad.  The  other  heritor,  Mr.  Lorraine  of  Nethercleugh, 
attends  regularly,  I  was  told.' 

'  Oo  ay,  they'll  be  the  kind  o'  folk  that'll  need  a  corner 
o'  heevin  to  theirsel's,'  said  Aunt  Susan  brusquely,  for  she 
was  inwardly  disgusted  at  the  way  in  which  Sandy  spoke. 
'  It's  a  guid  thing  for  you  if  there's  no  mony  puir  folk 
there.' 

'  Why,  Aunt  Susan  ? '  asked  Sandy  quickly,  for  he 
detected  well  enough  the  sarcasm  underneath  her 
words. 

'  Oh,  jist  because  puir  folk  an'  you  dinna  'gree  noo, 
Sandy,  sin'  ye've  gotten  to  be  sic  a  great  big  man  in  your 
ain  opeenion.  There  noo !  ye  can  chow  that  at  yer 
leisure  ;  an'  ye  needna  girn  at  yer  auld  auntie,  for  she's 
no'  carin'  a  peen's  heid  for  ye/  said  Aunt  Susan  calmly. 
'  I'm  no  verra  religious,  Sandy,  but  I  ken  that  when  the 
Lord  was  upo'  the  earth,  He  didna  fash  whether  folk  was 


88  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

"  seleck  "  or  no.  He  likit  the  common  folk,  an'  He's  the 
common  folk's  freen'  to  this  day.  Weel,  I'll  awa'  to 
the  byre.' 

So  saying,  and  having  relieved  her  mind,  Aunt  Susan 
bounced  out  of  the  kitchen,  and  left  the  three  to  them- 
selves. Jamie  was  unable  to  repress  a  smile  at  his 
aunt's  unwonted  eloquence,  but  the  sad  look  still  lingered 
on  the  old  man's  face,  and  Sandy's  was  flushed  with 
indignation. 

'  She's  a  frightful  old  dragon  that ! '  he  exclaimed. 
'How  you  ever  put  up  with  her  tongue  passes  my 
comprehension.' 

'  She's  maybe  no'  that  faur  frae  the  bit,  my  son,'  said 
John  Bethune ;  then,  leaning  forward,  he  looked  with  a 
great  and  solemn  earnestness  into  Sandy's  handsome  face. 
'  Sandy,  my  man,  if  I  thocht  ye  were  to  enter  on  the 
preachin'  o'  the  word,  an'  a'  the  solemn  duties  an' 
responsibilities  o'  a  minister  in  ony  but  the  richt  speerit, 
I  wad  for  ever  rue  the  day  I  dedicated  ye  to  the  Kirk. 
Mind  ye,  ye'll  hae  to  gie  an  accoont  o'  yer  talents  to  Him 
that  judges  the  heart  an'  no'  the  ootward  action.  Think 
on  *  that,  Sandy,  and  pray  withoot  ceasin'  to  be  keepit 
back  frae  presumptuous  sins.  Him  wha's  servant 
ye  are  was  meek  and  lowly,  an'  Paul,  that  graund 
disciple,  was  never  withoot  the  fear  that  while  preachin' 
to  ithers  he  micht  be  a  castaway.  It's  in  that 
speerit,  Sandy,  ye  maun  enter  on  yer  wark,  else  ye 
canna  prosper.' 

An  awkward,  almost  painful  silence  followed  upon  the 
old  man's  solemn  warning.  Jamie  turned  to  his  book 
again,  while  Sandy  sat  twirling  his  thumbs,  and  looking 
moodily  into  the  fire.  He  felt  himself  aggrieved,  after 
having  rushed*  home  to  tell  them  the  news,  that  they 
should  receive  him  with  such  cold  congratulations.  At 


CHANGE.  89 

that  moment  Sandy  Bethune  felt  further  off  than  ever 
from  his  own  folk.  They  would  never  understand  nor 
appreciate  him,  and  it  was  hardly  possible  to  put  up  with 
their  ignorant,  old-world  notions. 

'Don't  be  so  hard  on  me,  father/  he  said,  feeling 
that  some  remark  was  expected  of  him.  '  Of  course  I 
mean  to  work  hard,  and  do  as  much  good  as  I  can.  It 
wasn't  fair  of  Aunt  Susan  to  come  down  so  hard  upon 
me.  What  does  she  know  about  it  any  way  ? ' 

'  She  means  weel,'  said  the  old  man,  and  then  a  silence 
fell  upon  them  again. 

'  Well,  I'll  away  up  to  the  Knowe,  and  tell  them  the 
news,'  said  Sandy,  jumping  up.  '  What  are  you  reading, 
Jamie  ?  Mill's  System  of  Logic  ?  Upon  my  word,  you 
are  going  in  for  philosophy  with  a  vengeance.  But  do 
you  understand  it  ? '  he  added  curiously,  and  the  tone  of 
the  question  brought  the  ready  flush  to  his  brother's 
cheek.  At  four-and-twenty  he  was  as  sensitive  on  some 
points  as  a  child. 

'  Understand  it !  Ay,  does  he,  an'  a  hantle  mair  than 
me,  or  even  you,  Sandy,  wi'  a'  yer  college  lare,'  said  the 
old  man,  with  a  certain  deep  satisfaction  and  pride  which 
astonished  Sandy  as  much  as  the  fact  of  Jamie  reading 
Mill 

He  smiled,  just  a  trifle  incredulously,  and  went  away 
out  of  the  house.  Knowing  that  Mrs.  Campbell's  milk 
customers  would  be  about  the  kitchen  entrance  at  the 
Knowe,  he  took  the  trouble  to  go  up  the  old  road  a  bit, 
and  then  through  the  stackyard  to  the  front  door.  The 
snow  had  ceased  to  fall,  and  the  sky  was  breaking  up, 
and  revealing,  here  and  there,  blue  patches  set  with  stars. 
The  frost  was  intense,  and  already  the  snow-covered 
paths  were  growing  crisp  and  slippery.  David  Campbell 
himself  answered  the  low  knock,  and  peered  out  curiously 


90  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

when  he  opened   the  door,  wondering   what   front-door 
visitor  could  be  so  late  on  a  stormy  night. 

'  Maister  Bell ! '  he  exclaimed  when  he  saw  the  figure 
in  clerical  garb.  '  Na ;  oh,  is't  you,  Sandy  Bethune  ? 
Come  in.  Naebody  was  expeckin'  you.' 

'  I  won't  come  in,  thanks.  Is  Mary  in  the  house,  Mr. 
Campbell  ?  I  want  to  see  her  for  a  little.' 

'  She's  no'  in.  She's  at  Markinch,  speerin'  for  her 
Auntie  Katie  that's  doon  wi'  the  cauld.  Come  in  an' 
gie's  yer  crack  till  she  comes  back.' 

'  I  think  I'll  go  and  meet  her.  She'll  be  sure  to  come 
over  the  Cunan  Hill,  I  suppose  ? ' 

'  Oh,  sure !  it's  the  nearest  way  frae  Northhall, 
ye  ken,  an'  the  best,  especially  on  a  snawy  nicht 
But  what's  brocht  ye  to  the  Star  a'  on  a  sudden 
the  nicht  ? ' 

'  I'll  tell  you  when  I  come  back.  It's  good  news,' 
said  Sandy  with  a  laugh.  "  Is  there  a  stick  in  the 
lobby  ?  Hand  it  out,  please.  The  roads  are  very 
slippery.' 

'  There's  my  faither's  tree  till  ye,'  said  David  Campbell, 
handing  out  the  stout  crook  which  had  stood  for  fifty  years 
and  more  in  the  lobby  at  the  Knowe.  Thus  equipped, 
Sandy  trudged  off.  Directly  he  was  beyond  the  houses 
he  lit  \  cigar  and  walked  on  quickly,  pondering  certain 
things  in  his  mind.  He  felt  a  vague  dissatisfaction,  an 
uneasy  consciousness  that  his  relations  with  the  Star 
were  not  quite  what  they  should  be.  Every  step  he  took 
was  bringing  him  nearer  Mary  Campbell,  but  the  thought 
had  not  power  to  thrill  his  pulses,  or  make  his  heart 
beat  faster ;  and  yet  he  had  not  seen  her  for  nearly  four 
months. 

The  sky  gradually  cleared  as  the  wind  rose,  and  when 
he  passed  through  the  wickets  into  the  path  which  led 


CHANGE.  91 

over  the  hill,  he  could  see  Mary  coming  over  the  brow  of 
the  slope ;  at  least,  there  was  a  woman's  figure  standing 
out  clearly  against  the  deep  blue  of  the  sky,  and  which 
would  in  all  probability  be  Mary.  He  walked  more 
leisurely  now,  and  just  met  her  at  the  base  of  the 
hill. 

'  Oh,  Sandy ! '  she  exclaimed  breathlessly,  and  yet 
somehow  she  did  not  exhibit  that  surprise  he  expected. 
The  explanation  was  that  he  was  so  continually  in  her 
thoughts  that  it  could  not  have  seemed  very  strange 
though  he  should  appear  sometimes  at  her  side. 

'  How  are  you,  Mary  ? '  he  asked ;  and  after  holding 
her  hand  a  moment  he  stooped  and  kissed  her.  As  he 
did  so  he  saw  her  eyes  fill  with  tears. 

'  They  didna  ken  ye  was  comin',  surely.  At  least  I 
saw  Jamie  yestreen,  an'  he  said  naething  aboot  it.' 

'  No,  they  didn't  know ;  I  didn't  know  myself,'  said 
Sandy  rather  shortly ;  for  the  broad  Scotch,  even  when 
uttered  in  so  sweet  a  tone,  jarred  upon  him  and  vexed 
him. 

'  I  hope  there's  naething  wrang,'  she  said  rather 
timidly. 

'  No.  I've  got  a  church,  Mary ;  that's  what  brought 
me  to  Star  to-night,'  he  said.  '  We  need  not  stand  here. 
Let  us  walk  on.' 

'  A  church !     Oh,  Sandy,  where  ? ' 

'  At  Lochbroorn,  near  Lockerbie.  They  have  elected  me 
unanimously.  I  am  told  there  was  not  one  dissentient 
voice,'  said  Sandy  with  his  grandest  air. 

'  Near  Lockerbie  ;  where's  that,  Sandy  ? ' 

'  In  Dumfriesshire,  you  little  goose.  Have  you  for- 
gotten all  your  geography  already  ? ' 

'  I  think  I  have.     An'  when  do  ye  gang,  Sandy  ? ' 

'  As  soon  as  I  can ;  of  course,  now  it  will  be  after  the 


92  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

New  Year ;  but  you're  never  asking  about  the  stipend  or 
the  manse,  Mary.' 

'  But  you'll  tell  me  a'  aboot  it,  Sandy,'  said  Mary  with 
a  fleeting  upward  smile,  which  had  a  touch  of  wistfulness 
in  it.  Mary  Campbell's  love  was  more  a  pain  than  a  joy ; 
there  was  a  strange  uncertainty  and  fear  mingling  with 
it,  and  an  utter  absence  of  that  perfect  trust  and  freedom 
which  makes  love's  young  dream  so  sweet. 

'  The  stipend  is  two  hundred,  besides  the  glebe,  and 
the  manse  has  ten  rooms  in  it,  Mary ;  different  from 
anything  you've  been  accustomed  to.' 

'  Ten  rooms,  Sandy ! '  echoed  Mary  in  a  whisper. 
'  That's  mair  nor  they  have  at  Carriston  ;  as  mony  nearly, 
I  Relieve,  as  what's  at  Brunton.' 

'  It's  bigger  than  the  Knowe,  any  way,'  said  Sandy, 
without  drawing  any  comparison  between  it  and  his 
own  humble  home.  'There'll  be  a  dining-room  and  a 
drawing-room  and  a  study,  then  bedrooms  of  course. 
It'll  take  a  lot  of  money  to  furnish  it,  but  my  father 
must  just  advance  the  cash.  I  must  make  a  good 
appearance  at  first,  you  know;  so  much  depends  on 
that.' 

'  But  sic  a  hoose  is  by  faur  ower  big  for  you,  Sandy,' 
Mary  ventured  to  say,  but  did  not  say  '  for  us/  as  most 
girls  would  have  done. 

'  Not  a  bit  of  it.  I've  been  a  great  deal  in  fine 
houses,  and  you'll  soon  grow  accustomed.  You'll  need 
to  pull  up,  though,  Mary,  and  learn  a  great  deal  within 
the  next  twelve  months,  before  you  come  to  the  manse  of 
Lochbroom.' 

Mary  sighed.  She  felt  very  ignorant  and  weak  and 
unfitted  for  the  position  of  which  her  lover  spoke.  The 
burden  of  the  future  sometimes  weighed  very  heavily 
on  her,  and  Sandy  was  not  so  helpful  as  he  might 


CHANGE.  93 

have  been.  He  was  always  readier  to  find  fault 
than  to  notice  improvements  or  commend  her  for 
doing  well. 

'  Did  you  read  the  books  I  sent  to  you,  Mary  ? ' 

'  Yes,  I  read  them ;  but  I  didna  ken  the  meanin'  o' 
the  half  in  Bacon's  Essays.  I  likit  some  o'  the  poetry 
books  best,'  said  Mary.  '  I  dinna  think  I'm  clever  enough 
to  read  your  fine  books,  Sandy ;  it  would  be  better  to  let 
me  be.  I'd  rather  learn  a'  ye  want  me  to  learn  just  by 
listenin'  to  you.  An'  I've  sae  muckle  adae  that  when  I 
sit  doon  whiles  at  nicht  to  a  book  I  fa'  asleep.' 

Sandy  Bethune  bit  his  lip,  but  when  he  felt  the  light 
hand  tremble  on  his  arm,  his  heart  smote  him.  After 
all  he  was  a  little  hard  on  the  poor  little  girl,  who  -  had 
never  had  a  chance. 

'  Never  mind,  my  pet.  Don't  bother  your  little  head 
any  more  over  Bacon.  I  daresay  he's  rather  a  dry  old 
chap.  I  daresay  you'll  do  splendidly  when  you're  away 
from  the  drudgery  of  the  Knowe,'  said  Sandy ;  and 
as  they  were  in  the  deep  shadow  of  the  malt  barns, 
and  nobody  was  in  sight,  he  stooped  down,  and 
kissed  her  again.  Her  humility  touched  him,  and  he 
was  very  fond  of  her  in  his  own  way.  And  if  only 
she  would  not  speak  so  broad,  she  was  very  pretty,  and 
when  properly  dressed  would  look  as  like  a  lady  as 
many  he  knew. 

'  So  you'll  need  to  be  getting  your  things  ready,  Mary. 
Women  always  get  a  lot  of  stuff,  don't  they,  when  they're 
going  to  be  married  ?  Of  course  it  won't  be  for  a  while 
yet,  till  I  get  settled  a  while,  and  am  all  ready  for  you. 
Won't  you  be  glad  to  come  ? ' 

'  Ay,  if  only  I  can  please  ye^  and  mak'  ye  a  guid  wife,' 
said  Mary  with  a  sob  in  her  voice.  '  But  oh,  Sandy, 
mind  that  if  ye  think  ye  wad  be  better  wi'  somebody 


94  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

else,  I'm  quite  willin'  to  gie  ye  up.  I  dinna  ken  what 
I  wad  dae  if  ye  thocht  ye  had  made  a  mistake  when  it 
was  ower  late  to  mend  it' 

'  If  we  weren't  so  near  the  Knowe,  you  little  monkey, 
I'd  punish  you  for  such  a  speech,'  said  Sandy  playfully. 
Then  a  smile  stole  through  her  tears  again,  and  for  the 
moment  the  girl's  anxious  heart  was  set  at  rest. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

SPELLBOUND. 

'N  the  study  at  the  manse  of  Lochbroom  sat 
the  newly  -  elected  minister  on  a  Friday 
morning,  trying  to  collect  his  thoughts, 
in  order  to  prepare  his  discourse  for  the 
Sabbath  day.  He  found  it  a  difficult  task, 
for  the  week  had  been  one  of  excitement  and 
event,  and  it  was  not  easy  to  compose  the 
mind  and  banish  all  disturbing  elements  from  his 
thoughts.  Everything  was  so  new  and  strange ;  the 
very  furniture  in  the  room  was  discomposing,  it  was 
so  unfamiliar.  John  Bethune  had  told  his  son  to  obtain 
suitable  furnishings  for  his  manse,  and  send  in  the  bills 
to  him,  little  dreaming,  honest  man,  what  he  would  be 
called  upon  to  pay. 

The  Reverend  Alexander  Bethune  had  a  refined  taste, 
and  liked  everything  of  the  best  quality.  Those  who 
had  already  seen  the  interior  of  the  manse  had  come 
away  in  ecstasies  over  the  beauty  and  solid  elegance 
to  be  found  there.  The  dining-room  was  substantially 
and  chastely  furnished  in  oak  and  crocodile  leather ;  the 


96  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

study  in  mahogany  and  Utrecht  velvet,  the  drawing-room 
in  ebony  and  silk  tapestry.  The  young  minister  knew 
his  father  was  possessed  of  ample  means,  and  so  took 
advantage  to  the  uttermost  of  his  permission  to  please 
himself.  What  would  the  Star  folk  have  said  could 
they  have  had  but  one  peep  into  the  manse  of  Loch- 
broom  ?  and  what  would  be  gentle  Mary  Campbell's  awe 
and  astonishment  when  she  looked  upon  her  future 
home  ? 

Such  thoughts  as  these,  I  fear,  occupied  the  mind  of 
the  young  minister,  and  proved  more  alluring  and  en- 
grossing than  the  words  of  the  text  he  had  chosen : 
'  Whatsoever  a  man  soweth,  that  shall  he  also  reap/ 

He  had,  however,  at  length  managed  in  a  manner  to 
concentrate  his  thoughts  upon  his  subject,  when  his 
housekeeper  knocked  at  the  door. 

'  There  is  a  gentleman  in  the  dining-room,  sir, — Mr. 
Lorraine  of  Nethercleugh,'  she  said.  '  If  you  are  not  too 
busy  he  would  be  glad  to  see  you  for  a  few  minutes.' 

The  minister  rose  at  once,  well  pleased  to  hear  the 
name  of  one  of  the  heritors.  It  augured  well  that  they 
should  begin  so  soon  to  show  him  neighbourly  kindness. 
He  walked  into  the  dining-room  and  greeted  his  visitor 
without  the  slightest  restraint  or  shyness ;  the  new 
minister  of  Lochbroom  had  the  utmost  confidence  in 
himself. 

'  Good  morning,  Mr.  Bethune,'  said  the  stranger  with 
a  strong  English  accent.  '  I  must  apologize  for  this 
early  call,  and  also  for  my  unconventional  attire.  I  ride 
into  the  village  for  my  letters  every  morning,  and  I 
merely  looked  in  to  see  whether  it  would  suit  you  to 
dine  with  us  to  night.  My  daughter  and  I  will  be  quite 
alone ;  but  it  may  help  to  pass  an  hour  or  two,  and  we 
will  be  delighted  to  see  you.' 


SPELLBOUND.  97 

'  Thank  you,  I  ?hall  be  most  happy  to  accept  of  your 
invitation,  and  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  Miss 
Lorraine,'  said  the  minister  a  little  less  effusively,  for 
he  felt  as  if  that  keen,  deep-set  eye  were  reading  his 
inmost  soul.  He  had  seen  Mr.  Lorraine  at  the  ordina- 
tion dinner  the  previous  evening,  but  had  not  been 
so  struck  by  his  appearance  then  as  now.  He  was  a 
man  considerably  past  his  prime,  with  a  tall,  well-knit 
figure,  and  a  face  which  must  once  have  been  handsome, 
though  it  looked  now  as  if  some  terrible  blast  of  sorrow 
had  swept  over  it,  searing  a  line  here  and  another  there, 
until  its  contour  was  marred.  The  mouth  under  the 
heavy  grey  moustache  was  grave  and  stern,  and,  though 
he  spoke  pleasantly  and  cordially  enough,  no  smile  ever 
came  upon  his  face.  He  wore  riding  garb,  and  looked 
every  inch  a  gentleman  ;  somehow  Alexander  Bethune 
felt  himself  miserably  conscious  of  his  own  insigni- 
ficance. 

'  Have  you  recovered  from  the  ordeal  you  underwent 
last  night  1 '  asked  Mr.  Lorraine.  '  I  felt  very  much 
for  you.  It  seems  to  me  always  that  the  great  mistake 
made  at  this  sort  of  gatherings  is  talking  too  much  of 
and  at  the  guest  of  the  evening.  But  I  must  say  you 
took  it  all  very  coolly.' 

'  I  tried  to  do  so ;  but,  as  you  say,  perhaps  there  was 
just  a  little  too  much  said.' 

'Well,  they  have  given  us  cause  to  expect  a  great 
deal  from  you,  Mr.  Bethune ;  I  hope  you  will  be  very 
happy  and  comfortable  among  us.  I  must  say  I  have 
found  the  people  of  Lochbroom  and  the  neighbourhood 
most  kind  and  courteous,  since  I  came  to  make  my 
dwelling  among  them.' 

'  Have  you  not  always  resided  at  Nethercleugh  then  1 ' 
asked  the  minister  involuntarily. 

9 


98  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

'  No ;  we  only  came  a  year  ago,  when  I  bought  tho 
place  from  the  Earl/  said  Mr.  Lorraine.  '  So  we  are  not 
county  people.  I  was  a  merchant  in  London  before  I 
retired  from  business.  Well,  may  we  expect  you  at 
seven,  Mr.  Bethune  ? '  he  broke  off  with  strange  abrupt- 
ness, and  the  minister  wondered  to  see  a  deep  shadow 
steal  darkly  across  his  face. 

'  Thanks,  I  shall  not  fail' 

'  That's  right.  If  you  walk  out  (it  is  only  three  miles 
following  the  burn  which  flows  past  your  own  garden 
wall),  my  man  shall  drive  you  back  in  the  evening. 
Good  morning.' 

So,  in  the  same  gravely  courteous  manner,  he  shook 
hands,  and  took  his  leave.  The  minister  watched  him 
ride  away  up  the  street,  admiring  the  beautiful  chestnut 
mare,  and  filled  with  the  liveliest  interest  and  curiosity 
concerning  him  and  his  daughter.  There  was  very  little 
progress  made  with  the  sermon  that  day,  there  were  many 
interruptions,  and  when  evening  came  he  felt  a  triile 
alarmed  lest  he  should  not  be  able  to  do  himself  justice 
on  the  Sabbath  day. 

Shortly  after  six  he  set  out  to  walk  by  way  of  the 
winding  stream  to  Nethercleugh.  It  was  only  the  third 
week  in  January,  but  the  air  was  mild  and  pleasant,  and 
a  new  year's  spring  had  made  the  hedgerows  bud  and 
some  green  blades  peep  above  ground.  The  Cleugh  road, 
as  it  was  called,  was  a  favourite  walk  with  Lochbroom 
folk,  and  the  new  proprietor  of  Nethercleugh  had  won 
golden  opinions  for  himself  by  giving  them  the  privilege 
of  extending  their  walk  through  his  grounds,  and  out 
by  the  north  lodge  into  the  Lockerbie  road.  He  saw 
that  the  path  was  kept  in  order  also,  and  it  was  safe 
footing  even  in  the  darkest  night.  It  was  not  dark 
to-iiight,  however,  for  the  moon  was  high  in  the  heavens, 


SPELLBOUND.  99 

and  objects  at  a  distance  were  clearly  discernible.  The 
path  took  many  a  curious  winding  curve,  crossing  and 
recrossing  the  stream  several  times,  and  sometimes  losing 
sight  of  it  altogether. 

It  is  a  poor  soul  that  is  not  impressed  by  its 
surroundings,  and  that  does  not  feel  itself  uplifted  by 
that  solemnity  with  which  nature  often  seeks  to  com- 
mune with  earth's  children. 

When  the  human  heart  is  in  unison  with  nature's 
harmonies,  then  is  it  very  near  to  nature's  God.  The 
young  minister  stood  still  on  one  of  the  rustic  bridges 
which  spanned  the  stream,  and  gave  himself  up  for  a 
moment  to  the  softening  influences  of  the  place.  No 
sound  broke  the  stillness  but  the  solemn  rustling  of  the 
fir  tops,  and  the  gentle  murmur  of  the  stream  as  it  gurgled 
and  splashed  in  its  pebbly  bed.  The  moonlight  was 
gloriously  bright,  and  through  a  gap  in  the  trees  he 
could  look  up  to  the  village  clustering  on  its  gentle 
slope,  guarded  by  the  spire  of  the  grey  old  church, — • 
his  own  church,  where,  on  the  Sabbath  day,  he  must 
begin  his  life  work,  and  sow  the  seed  which  should 
bear  an  immortal  harvest.  It  was  a  solemn,  almost  a 
chastening  thought,  and  at  that  moment  all  that  was 
noblest  and  best  in  the  man  was  called  into  being. 
He  forgot  all  the  outward  dignity  and  honour  of  his 
position,  which,  not  an  hour  ago,  had  been  uppermost 
in  his  mind.  The  thoughts  which  came  to  him  there 
were  almost  a  prayer,  and,  for  the  first  time  since  he  had 
had  the  ministry  in  view,  he  obtained  a  glimpse  of  its 
solemn  responsibilities  and  high  privileges.  Oh  that  the 
influences  of  that  holy  hour  had  but  remained !  then 
indeed  life  would  not  have  been  saddened  by  vain  regrets 
which  would  go  with  him  to  the  grave. 

Out  of  a  deep,  thickly -wooded  glade,  into  which  the 


100  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

moonbeams  could  not  gain  admittance,  he  came  suddenly 
into  the  park,  with  its  noble  trees  and  soft  sward 
gleaming  white  under  the  clear  sky.  He  saw  the  house 
in  the  near  distance,  a  venerable  pile,  built  of  the  red 
sandstone  common  to  the  district,  but  which  the  storms 
and  suns  of  many,  many  years  had  softened  and  changed 
so  that  it  would  scarcely  have  been  recognised.  Ivy 
clung  to  its  turrets,  and  the  tender  mosses  crept  about 
its  lower  walls  as  if  they  loved  it. 

A  wide  sweep  of  gravel  lay  in  front,  bounded  by  the 
soft,  well-kept  turf  of  a  beautiful  lawn,  in  the  middle  of 
which  stood  one  hoary  chestnut  tree.  There  were  no 
•flowers  to  be  seen ;  the  whole  appearance  of  the  place 
was  plain  and  severe,  but  beautiful  and  grand  in  its 
simplicity. 

As  the  minister  gazed  upon  the  imposing  dwelling, 
and  recalled  the  humble  cottage  in  which  he  had  been 
reared,  his  heart  swelled  with  pride,  that,  through  his 
own  industry  and  merit,  he  should  have  raised  himself 
to  be  received  as  an  equal  by  its  possessor.  Perhaps  in 
youth  such  a  thought  was  natural.  The  servant  who 
took  his  hat  and  coat  immediately  ushered  him  up  the 
wide  staircase,  and,  opening  the  drawing-room  door, 
announced  him  by  name. 

'  Good  evening,  Mr.  Bethune,'  said  the  now  familiar 
voice  of  his  host ;  '  you  are  in  good  time.  Had  you  a 
pleasant  walk  ? ' 

'  Very ;  it  is  a  lovely  evening,  and  the  path  is  quite 
picturesque,'  answered  the  minister;  and,  as  his  eyes 
grew  accustomed  to  the  subdued  light  in  the  room,  he 
glanced  curiously,  almost  eagerly  round  in  search  of  Miss 
Lorraine. 

'My  daughter  will  be  down  presently,'  said  Mr. 
"Lorraine,  understanding  the  glance.  'She  was  in 


SPELLBOUND.  101 

Lockerbie  spending  the  day,  and  only  returned  about 
half  an  hour  ago.  She  is  usually  first.  This,  of  course, 
is  your  first  visit  to  Nethercleugh  ? ' 

'  Yes  ;  it  seems  a  fine  residence.' 

'  It  suits  us,  and  in  summer  it  is  very  pleasant. 
Beatrice  and  I  are  very  quiet  folk,  and  are  generally 
content  with  each  other,'  said  Mr.  Lorraine,  and  a  deep, 
exquisite  tenderness  relieved  for  a  moment  the  sternness 
of  his  face. 

'  Surely  she  must  be  old  and  uninteresting,'  thought 
the  minister.  'No  young  girl  would  be  content  to  be 
buried  in  such  a  quiet  country  place.' 

And  yet  there  was  grace  and  beauty  in  her  very  name. 
The  twain  relapsed  into  silence  then,  and  the  host  stood 
leaning  his  elbow  on  the  broad  marble  mantel,  looking 
almost  gloomily  into  the  fire.  The  guest  wondered  what 
kept  that  perpetual  shadow  on  his  face.  The  stillness 
in  the  house  oppressed  him,  and  the  room,  though 
magnificently  beautiful,  was  sombre  and  gloomy,  rendered 
even  more  so  by  the  subdued  light  from  the  solitary  read- 
ing-lamp burning  on  the  table.  At  last,  to  the  minister's 
relief,  the  door  opened,  and  involuntarily  he  rose  to  his 
feet.  He  could  not  have  described  the  strange  feeling 
which  took  possession  of  him ;  he  felt  as  if  some  crisis  in 
his  life  were  at  hand. 

'  My  daughter,  Mr.  Bethune.  Beatrice,  my  dear,  you 
have  not  been  in  haste,'  he  said,  looking  at  her  with 
critical  approval.  '  Mr.  Bethune  will  soon  learn  to 
depend  on  you  for  entertainment  when  he  comes  to 
Nethercleugh.  I  am  the  most  miserable  of  hosts.' 

'  Mr.  Bethune  must  not  believe  that,  else  he  and  I 
shall  never  agree,'  said  Beatrice  with  a  slight  smile ; 
then  she  turned  to  the  minister  with  exquisite  grace. 
'  May  I  bid  you  welcome  to  Lochbroom  and  to  Nether- 


102  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

cleugh,  and  express  the  wish  that  you  will  be  very  happy 
with  us  ? ' 

'  Thank  you,  Miss  Lorraine,'  said  the  minister  with  an 
awkwardness  altogether  new  to  him  ;  and  his  face  flushed, 
he  could  not  tell  why. 

'  It  is  scarcely  half-past  seven,'  she  said,  moving  over 
to  a  beautiful  azalea  on  a  jardiniere  near  the  centre  table, 
and  touching  it  with  caressing  fingers.  '  This  plant  is 
beginning  to  droop,  papa ;  I  must  have  Glover  in  to  look 
at  it.' 

'  They  are  best  in  the  greenhouse,  my  dear ;  I  have 
often  said  so,'  he  replied,  and  the  minister  saw  with  what 
love  and  pride  he  watched  her  every  movement.  He 
had  reason  to  be  proud  of  the  queenly  figure,  whose  grace 
was  enhanced  by  the  rich  simplicity  of  her  attire.  It 
fell  in  sheeny  folds  about  her,  and  the  glowing  scarlet 
geranium  against  the  black  lace  at  her  throat  seemed  to 
impart  a  reflection  of  its  colour  to  the  pale  face.  It  was 
a  striking  face,  not  so  much  on  account  of  its  beauty, 
but  because  it  was  indicative  of  character,  and  seemed  to 
have  a  story  to  tell.  That  it  was  a  sad  story  the  grave, 
womanly  mouth  and  wistful  eyes  proved  beyond  a  doubt. 
They  were  lovely  eyes,  deep  and  unfathomable,  and 
capable  of  a  hundred  varying  expressions.  The  lashes 
and  eyebrows  were  dark,  but  the  abundant  hair  coiled 
about  the  stately  head  had  a  sheen  upon  it  which  neither 
painter's  brush  nor  poet's  fancy  could  ever  reproduce. 
It  rippled  back  from  a  broad,  thoughtful  brow,  which  had 
some  deep  lines  on  it,  which  made  it  difficult  to  define 
her  age.  In  all  his  life  the  minister  of  Lochbroom  had 
seen  no  woman  in  the  least  like  Beatrice  Lorraine ;  in 
her  presence  he  felt  as  if  under  the  influence  of  some 
spell. 

'  You  will  be  charmed  with  Lochbroom  a  month  hence, 


SPELLBOUND.  103 

Mr.  Bethune,'  she  said,  turning  her  deep  eyes  on  the 
minister's  face  again.  '  It  is  loveliest  in  spring.' 

'  I  should  think  it  would  lend  itself  well  also  to  the 
beauty  of  the  autumn.  The  surrounding  country  is  so 
richly  wooded,'  he  answered.  '  Do  you  not  admire  the 
colouring  of  the  autumn  woods  ? ' 

'  No,  if  I  had  my  way  there  should  be  no  autumn 
season.  It  is  a  sad  and  miserable  time/  she  said  with  a 
strange  passion.  'For  me  the  summer  is  always  sha- 
dowed by  the  thought  of  the  fall  of  the  leaf.  I  know 
not  how  any  one  can  see  aught  of  beauty  in  the  precur- 
sors of  decay.' 

At  that  moment  the  gong  sounded,  and  they  adjourned 
to  the  dining-room.  Dinner  was  a  pleasant  meal,  for 
Mr.  Lorraine  made  an  evident  effort  to  entertain  hia 
guest,  and  there  were  few  subjects  on  which  he  could 
not  talk  with  that  fluency  born  of  confidence  in  his 
own  knowledge.  Beatrice  also  joined  in  the  con- 
versation with  easy  frankness.  She  looked  well,  too, 
at  the  head  of  her  father's  well-appointed  table,  and 
performed  her  duties  with  an  exquisite  grace.  The 
minister  felt  sorry  when  dessert  was  over,  and  she  left 
the  room. 

'  Do  you  smoke,  Mr.  Bethune  ? '  asked  his  host  when 
they  were  alone. 

'  A  cigar  occasionally." 

'  I  can  suit  you.  There  are  some  fine  Manillas  in  my 
sanctum.  I  shall  just  get  them,  if  you  will  excuse  me  a 
moment.  It  is  mild  enough  for  us  to  enjoy  a  puff  out- 
side. Then  Beatrice  will  give  us  some  tea  and  a  song. 
She  sings  welL' 

'  I  am  sure  of  it.  Miss  Lorraine  must  excel  in  what- 
ever she  does,'  said  the  minister.  He  was  perfectly 
sincere  in  his  remark,  yet  it  was  received  by  Mr.  Lorraine 


104  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

with  a  swift,  curious  glance,  and  a  curve  of  the  lips  which 
might  have  passed  for  a  smile. 

'  Let  me  give  you  a  word,  Mr.  Bethune.  If  you  wish 
to  keep  on  good  terms  with  my  daughter,  don't  attempt 
to  flatter  her ;  she  will  resent  it  at  once/  he  said.  '  The 
wind  is  westerly,  I  see ;  we  had  better  turn  our  faces  to 
it.  It  will  refresh  us  after  the  closeness  of  the  dining- 
room.' 

In  courtesy  to  his  guest,  Mr.  Lorraine  lit  a  cigar  also, 
but  made  little  progress  with  it.  He  talked  kindly  and 
quietly  to  the  young  minister,  chiefly  about  Lochbroom 
and  the  state  of  the  church,  but  he  made  no  personal 
remarks,  and  did  not  ask  a  single  question  concerning 
the  antecedents  or  past  career  of  his  guest.  After  a  ten 
minutes'  stroll  to  and  fro  on  the  gravelled  sweep  in  front 
of  the  house,  they  went  indoors,  and  up  to  the  drawing- 
room.  Tea  was  in,  and  a  few  minutes  were  spent  over 
it,  then  at  her  father's  request  Beatrice  opened  the 
piano. 

'  Do  you  sing,  Mr.  Bethune  ? '  she  asked,  as  she  turned 
over  the  music  sheets.  '  Could  I  not  find  something  here 
for  you  ? ' 

'I  would  rather  have  the  pleasure  of  hearing  you, 
Miss  Lorraine,  if  you  please/ 

'  Very  well/  she  said  quietly,  and,  running,  her  fingers 
over  the  keys,  she  began  at  once,  without  any  of  that 
hesitancy  and  playful  affectation  which  so  many  musi- 
cians exhibit  Her  voice,  low  and  tremulous  at  first, 
gained  strength  as  she  sang,  until  a  rich,  sweet  volume 
of  sound  seemed  to  fill  the  whole  room.  The  familiar 
but  ever  beautiful  '  Flowers  o*  the  Forest '  was  rendered 
with  an  exquisite  and  thrilling  pathos  which  almost 
made  the  minister  hold  his  breath.  She  had  a  magnifi- 
cent and  powerful  voice,  well  under  control ;  and  would 


SPELLBOUND.  105 

soften  it  to  the  pathetic  melody,  till  it  seemed  like  the 
voice  of  tears.  Her  face  flushed  as  she  sang,  and  he 
saw  the  deep  eyes  glittering,  telling  how  the  power  of 
music  stirred  her  to  the  very  depths.  When  she  ceased 
there  was  a  moment's  deep  silence. 

'  Something  more,  if  you  please,'  he  pleaded  earnsstly, 
but  she  slightly  shook  her  head,  and  at  once  rose  from 
the  piano. 

1  No  more  to-night.  Please  don't  insist.  I  could  not,' 
she  said,  and,  moving  over  to  where  her  father  sat  with 
his  face  buried  in  his  hand,  she  touched  his  grey  head  as 
if  to  comfort  him. 

'  Why  will  you  sing  these  mournful  ditties,  Beatrice  ? ' 
he  asked,  looking  up  at  length  with  the  faintest  smile. 
'  You  know  how  I  dislike  them.' 

'  Shall  I  give  you  something  merrier,  papa  ? ' 

'  Never  mind.  Sit  down  and  let  us  talk.  Come, 
Mr.  Bethune.  I  fear  you  lind  us  but  indifferent 
company.  I  shall  be  sorry  if  you  find  your  first 
visit  to  Nethercleugh  too  depressing  to  care  to  repeat 
it.' 

'  That  is  not  likely,  Mr.  Lorraine,'  said  the  minister 
sincerely.  But  after  that  the  conversation  seemed  to 
flag.  It  was  as  if  some  chill  shadow  rested  on  the  family 
hearth,  intruding  itself  unasked  and  marring  the  harmony 
and  pleasure  of  the  hour.  The  minister  felt  it,  and  after 
a  time  he  rose  and  said  it  was  time  for  him  to  go.  They 
did  not  demur  nor  press  him  to  stay,  and  the  order  was 
given  to  bring  the  carriage  to  the  door. 

'  Come  again  soon.  Although  we  cannot  offer  you 
many  inducements,  we  shall  be  glad  to  see  you  at  any 
time,'  said  the  master  of  Nethercleugh  as  he  bade  him 
good-night.  '  Perhaps  you  will  not  always  find  us  very 
cheerful,  but  we  will  do  the  best  we  can.' 


iOC  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

The  minister  thanked  him,  and,  as  he  was  being 
driven  rapidly  home,  occupied  his  mind  with  speculations 
regarding  those  he  had  left.  That  some  great  sorrow 
had  recently  overshadowed  Nethercleugh  he  could  not  but 
conclude.  What,  then,  could  it  be  ?  Evidences  of  wealth 
were  there  in  plenty,  but  that  peace  of  mind  which 
money  cannot  buy  seemed  lacking.  Henceforth  Nether- 
cleugh would  not  only  be  full  of  interest  for  him,  but  it 
would  be  a  magnet,  because  it  held  Beatrice  Lorraine. 

When  the  carriage  drove  away,  Mr.  Lorraine  returned 
to  the  drawing-room  and  threw  himself  with  a  deep, 
heavy  sigh  into  a  chair.  Then  Beatrice  rose  from 
hers,  and,  kneeling  by  his  side,  clasped  her  hands  upon 
his  arm. 

'  Papa,  I  know  you  could  not  bear  it  to-night.  Was  it 
because  he  reminded  you  of  what  Willie  might  have 
been  ? '  said  the  sweet,  pitiful  voice.  '  Dear  papa,  your 
heart  is  full  of  anguish.  Love  is  struggling  hard  to  win. 
Don't  be  angry.  I  must  speak,  or  I  shall  die.  I  lie 
awake  at  nights  thinking  of  him,  picturing  him*  a  wretched 
outcast  in  the  streets  of  London.  He  did  very  wrong. 
You  know  I  do  not  seek  to  condone  or  excuse  his  offence; 
only  he  was  very  young,  and  he  had  nowhere  to  go 
when  we  cast  him  off.  Oh,  think  of  him  as  he  was  at 
the  best,  papa !  Eemember  how  you  loved  him !  He 
was  very  dear  to  you.' 

'  Dear !  Ay,  too  dear !  I  loved  him,  God  help  me ! 
better  than  my  own  soul.  I  made  an  idol  of  the  boy 
from  his  birth,  Beatrice,  and  left  you,  my  poor  daughter, 
to  the  love  and  care  of  strangers.  But  I  have  been 
punished  for  my  sin ;  my  eyes  have  been  opened,  and 
you,  my  darling,  are  my  all  to-night.' 

'  Oh,  do  not  say  that,  papa !  so  long  as  Willie  lives, 
he  is  your  son,  you  cannot  sever  the  tie,'  said  Beatrice 


SPELLBOUND.  107 

brokenly.  '/  was  always  happy ;  you  were  kind  to  me  too. 
Do  not  imagine  I  felt  hurt  or  jealous ;  how  could  I  be 
jealous  of  my  own  dear  brother  ?  you  had  room  in  your 
heart  for  us  both.  Papa,  I  feel  it  very  deep  in  my  heart ; 
I  brood  over  it  night  and  day.  Oh,  is  it  not  a  wrong  and 
wicked  thing  to  leave  him  to  his  own  devices  ?  What  if 
it  should  accomplish  his  destruction  ?  Would  we  not  be 
answerable  ? '  she  asked  with  a  shudder. 

'  Beatrice ! '  His  tone  was  cold  and  stern,  and  she 
crept  away  from  him,  as  if  stung  to  the  heart.  '  I  have 
forbidden  you  to  speak  of  this.  I  forbid  you  again.  He 
has  chosen  his  own  path,  the  path  of  dishonour  and 
disgrace,  where  we  will  not  follow  him.  Henceforth  I 
have  only  you.  May  God  forgive  me  if  I  am  harsh  to 
you,  my  darling ! '  he  said  with  a  burst  of  passionate 
fondness.  '  I  do  not  mean  to  be,  but  you  must  under- 
stand I  am  to  be  obeyed  in  this.'  He  rose  from  his 
chair,  as  if  unable  to  bear  his  own  thoughts,  and  went 
out  of  the  room.  A  few  minutes  later  she  heard  the 
library  door  close,  and  the  key  turned  in  the  lock. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

AN    UNGRATEFUL   HEART. 

*How  sharper  than  a  serpent's  tooth  it  is, 
To  have  a  thankless  child.' 

SHAKESPEARB. 

'S  there  nae  letter  the  day  yet,  John  ?' 

'  Nane  yet,  Shoosan.    I  wonder,  can  there 
be  onything   wrang  wi'  Sandy  ? '  said  the 
old  man   wearily,  both  his  look  and   tone 
telling  of  an  anxious  heart. 
'  Hoots  no ! '  answered  Susan  in  her  brisk, 
cheerful    fashion.      '  Ye   manna    get    ony   sic 
thocht  intae  yer  heid.     It's  near  the  Assembly  time,  ye 
ken,  an'  dootless  he'll  be  busy ;   but  for  a'  that  he  inicht 
hae  written.' 

'  He's  never  been  sae  reg'lar  since  he  gaed  tae  Loch- 
broom/  said  John  Bethune.  'An'  we  hinna  seen  him 
sin'  Februar'.  It's  a  lang  time.' 

Susan  Bethune  looked  at  her  brother  with  a  deep 
compassion,  for  he  seemed  to  her  that  morning  very  old 
and  very  frail.  Of  late  his  cheek  had  lost  its  ruddiness, 
his  eye  its  wonted  clearness ;  and  he  looked  his  seventy- 

103 


AN  UNGRATEFUL  HEART.  109 

five  years  to  the  full.  There  was  a  childishness  about 
him  at  times,  too,  shown  in  little  bursts  of  petulance  and 
waywardness  which  she  could  not  but  heed,  it  was  so 
different  from  the  self-control  and  calmness  of  demeanour 
to  which  she  had  been  so  long  accustomed.  There  is  a 
deep  pathos  in  such  changes  as  these.  We  do  not  like 
to  see  the  fall  of  a  goodly  tree,  nor  the  breaking  up  of  a 
fine  constitution ;  but  least  of  all  can  we  brook  signs  of 
failing  powers  in  those  we  love.  To  be  compelled  to 
watch  such  sad  decay,  I  think,  is  one  of  the  chief 
sorrows  of  life.  And  yet  it  has  its  bright  side,  too,  if 
we  only  care  to  look  at  it ;  for  there  is  another  and  a 
brighter  sphere  where  these  faculties,  worn  out  by  the 
toil  of  earth,  will  be  restored  to  their  pristine  freshness 
and  vigour. 

Til  tell  ye  what,  Shoosan,'  he  said,  suddenly  starting 
to  his  feet ;  '  I'll  get  ready  an'  gang  awa'  to  Edinburgh 
wi'  the  eleeven  train,  an'  syne  on  tae  Lochbroom  in  the 
efternune.' 

'  Ye'll  dae  a  hantle  less,'  said  Susan  calmly.  '  What 
for  wad  ye  flee  awa'  till  Lochbroom  the  day  ? ' 

'  To  see  Sandy.  I  maun  gang,  Shoosan  ;  dinna 
hinder  me.  Get  oot  my  claes,  like  a  wummin.' 

'An'  what'll  Jamie  say  when  he  comes  hame  frae 
Cupar  ? '  asked  Susan,  without  making  any  motion  to 
grant  his  request. 

'  He  has  nae  business  wi'  me.  Can  I  no'  gang  whaur 
I  like  for  you  or  him  either  ? '  asked  the  old  man  testily ; 
for  the  moment  the  idea  to  pay  a  visit  to  Lochbroom 
entered  his  head,  there  and  then  did  he  resolve  to  put  it 
into  immediate  execution. 

'  Man,  John,  be  reasonable.  Jamie  '11  tak'  my  heid  aff 
if  I  let  ye  awa'  on  sic  a  jaunt.  Ye  ken  he's  that  fear't 
aboot  ye,'  pleaded  Susan,  really  alarmed  when  she  saw 


110  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

how  determined  he  was.  '  Bide  or  next  week,  when  the 
thrang  o'  the  laud  '11  be  by,  an'  Jamie  11  gang  wi'  ye.' 

'  I'm.  gaun  the  day,  an'  the  noo,'  said  the  old  man 
doggedly,  and,  opening  the  kist  lid,  began  to  lay  out  his 
black  clothes,  the  broadcloth  suit  he  had  bought  for  his 
wedding  so  long  ago. 

'  As  sure's  I  live,  I  dinna  ken  what  tae  dae ! '  said 
Susan,  almost  in  tears.  '  Hoo  can  ye  gang  to  Lochbroom 
withoot  siller  ?  Ye  ken  brawly  that's  mainly  what  took 
Jamie  to  Cupar  the  day,'  she  added  triumphantly.  '  Ye'll 
hae  to  bide  or  the  morn,  onyway.' 

'  Na,  na ;  I  hae  as  muckle  as  tak'  me  there  an'  back,' 
said  the  old  man  quietly.  '  Whaur's  my  new  neepkin  ? 
this  ane's  a'  torn  at  the  edge.' 

'  If  ye're  gaun,  ye're  gaun  wi'  what  ye  can  get  for 
yersel'.  I'll  no'  tak'  it  on  mysel'  to  help  ye,  John 
Bethune,'  said  Susan  shortly.  '  Hoo  d'ye  think  an  auld 
cratur  like  you  will  ever  find  yer  way  awa'  sae  faur  ? 
Ye're  waur  than  a  bairn,  I  declare.' 

'  I'm  no'  that  faur  through  but  what  I  can  gang  there 
and  back,  Shoosan,'  answered  the  old  man,  proceeding 
rapidly  with  his  dressing,  Susan  watching  him  all  the 
wnile  with  anything  but  a  kindly  eye.  She  could  hardly 
believe  he  would  really  persist  in  his  determination  until 
he  bade  her  '  guid  mornin','  and,  taking  his  stout  stick  in 
his  hand,  turned  to  go. 

'  Ye're  a  bonnie-like  sicht  to  gang  awa'  to  the  manse,' 
she  said,  jumping  up  then.  '  Let  me  brush  yer  coat ;  an' 
see,  there's  yer  ither  neepkin,  ye  can  tie't  about  yer 
neck  on  the  road  or  i'  the  train,  an'  if  ye're  killed,  dinna 
blame  me.' 

'Nae  fear;  dinna  pit  yersel'  aboot  for  me.  I'll  be 
back  safe  and  soond  the  morn,'  he  said  cheerily, 
pleased  as  a  child  to  get  his  own  way.  'Tell  Jamie 


AN  UNGRATEFUL  HEART.  Ill 

he  can  baud  in  or  I  come  hame,  an'  syne  break  oot 
on  me.' 

Susan  Bethune  shook  her  head.  She  was  very 
uneasy  and  troubled  in  her  mind ;  but,  as  she  said  to 
Jamie  when  he  came  home,  '  Ye  micht  as  weel 
attempt  to  gar  the  sun  stand  still  as  pit  yer  faither 
past  a  thing  when  he's  set  on't.  He's  a  perfect  terror 
wi'  thrawnness.' 

Jamie  said  very  little,  but  he  was  not  the  less  anxious 
about  his  father;  indeed,  he  had  it  in  his  mind  once  or 
twice  to  go  after  him  and  bring  him  safely  home.  How- 
ever, he  tried  to  reassure  himself  with  the  thought  that 
his  father  was  not  so  very  frail  yet,  and  that  he  had  all 
his  faculties  about  him.  Surely  if  he  arrived  all  right  at 
Lochbroorn,  Sandy  would  see  to  it  that  he  would  get 
safely  back. 

He  could  not  but  wonder  how  his  brother  would  take 
the  visit,  for  he  had  never  once  invited  any  of  them  to 
come  and  see  him,  and  Jamie  himself  was  too  proud  to 
go  unasked.  It  was  long  since  he  had  become  convinced 
that  Sandy  was  ashamed  of  his  relations ;  his  habit  of 
deep  study  and  pondering  thought  had  given  him  a  keen, 
unerring  insight  into  human  nature,  and  he  could  read 
his  brother's  character  like  an  open  book.  He  regarded 
him  with  a  strange  commingling  of  feeling,  half  wonder- 
ing, half  sad,  but  he  was  too  generous  to  judge  him 
harshly,  and  could  find  many  excuses  for  the  weakness 
he  only  half  understood.  I  fear  Sandy  was  not  always 
so  generous  where  Jamie  was  concerned,  but  that  is  a 
common  failing.  It  is  so  easy  to  pick  faults,  so  hard  for 
the  most  of  us  to  acknowledge  good  in  others.  And  yet, 
when  we  so  strive  at  times,  and  succeed  in  conquering 
our  meaner  impulses,  is  not  the  sweet  satisfaction  which 
follows  a  reward  sufficient  for  the  struggle  ? 


112  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN 

In  due  time  the  old  man  arrived  in  Edinburgh,  and  on 
inquiry  learned  that  he  would  get  a  train  for  the  south 
early  in  the  afternoon.  He  was  just  like  a  child  in  his 
delight  at  finding  himself  amid  the  stir  and  charm  of 
new  scenes ;  his  spirit  was  still  young,  and  in  his  exuber- 
ance he  forgot  the  frailty  of  his  bodily  frame.  As  the 
train  sped  past  the  shores  of  Cobbinshaw  Loch,  through 
among  the  bleak  solitudes  of  the  Lanarkshire  hills, 
and  entered  the  greener  and  more  abundant  beauty  of 
the  southern  counties,  he  began  to  think,  for  the  first 
time  since  he  started  on  his  sudden  journey,  on  the  object 
he  had  in  view.  What  if  he  arrived  in  a  strange  place 
so  far  from  home  to  find  Sandy  away  ?  It  was  quite 
possible  that  such  might  be  the  case ;  however,  he  tried 
to  banish  such  a  thought,  and  tried  to  interest  himself 
again  in  the  scenery  through  which  he  was  being  so 
rapidly  whirled.  They  passed  Lockerbie,  and  when  the 
train  steamed  into  a  little  station  about  three  miles 
farther  on,  he  jumped  up  and  peered  eagerly  out,  sure 
they  had  arrived  at  Lochbroom. 

'  Lochbroom ! '  re-echoed  the  guard,  in  his  sharp, 
brusque  fashion.  '  You  should  have  changed  at  Lockerbie 
for  Lochbroom.  You  had  better  get  out  here  and  wait 
for  the  next  train  coming  from  the  south.' 

'  When'll  that  be,  though,  my  man  ? ' 

'  Six  o'clock.  Come,  get  out,  or  you'll  be  carried  a  few 
miles  farther  out  of  your  way.' 

'  Hoo  faur  is't  frae  here  to  Lochbroom  ? '  asked  John 
Bethune,  stepping  out  to  the  platform. 

'  About  six  miles.  Rather  far  for  an  old  fellow  like 
you.  You'd  better  wait  for  the  train,'  said  the  guard, 
and  next  minute  he  sounded  his  whistle,  and  the  train 
steamed  away. 

'Six   o'clock  I  that's   verra  near  twa  hoors  yet.     I'll 


AN  UNGRATEFUL  HEART.  113 

walk/  said  the  old  man.     '  I'm  fair  sair  sittin'  onyway. 
Eh  me  !   I  dinna  care  about  thae  railway  trains.' 

He  made  some  inquiry  at  the  station-house,  and  set 
out  manfully  on  his  walk.  Oh,  could  Susan  Bethune 
but  have  seen  the  old  man  toiling  along  the  dusty  road, 
with  his  black  coat  over  his  arm  and  his  bare  head 
exposed  to  the  sun !  words  would  not  have  been 
adequate  to  express  her  righteous  ire.  Somehow  the 
surrounding  country  no  longer  had  charm  or  interest 
for  John  Bethune,  and  he  began  to  wish  he  had  not 
been  quite  so  headstrong  in  the  morning.  It  was  one 
of  the  loveliest  of  May  days.  The  sky  was  brilliantly 
clear,  the  sunshine  radiant,  the  west  wind  soft  and  caress- 
ing in  its  touch.  Then  the  whole  earth  was  clothed  in 
green  ;  the  corn  was  a  foot  above  ground  now,  and  on 
the  earlier  lands  potato  and  turnip  tops  were  visible  on 
the  furrows.  The  air  was  full  of  melody,  and  of  that 
happy  promise  which  seems  to  come  home  to  us  more 
in  May  than  at  any  other  time.  There  was  not  much 
bloom  yet,  but  buds  were  plentiful,  both  in  hedge  and 
tree,  and  on  the  undulating  banks  which  rose  on  either 
side  of  the  road.  Time  was  when  these  things  would 
have  touched  and  filled  the  heart  of  John  Bethune,  but 
to-day  he  had  no  glad  eye  for  them,  but  thought  rather 
of  his  cosy  corner  by  the  fireside  at  home,  with  a  great 
longing  to  stretch  his  limbs  in  his  own  arm-chair.  The 
old  man  was  weary,  and  in  need  of  rest.  He  sat  down 
once  or  twice  on  the  way,  hot  and  tired  as  he  was,  and 
took  no  thought  of  putting  on  hat  or  coat ;  then  when  he 
was  cool  again  he  would  trudge  on  again,  straining  his 
eye  over  every  little  eminence  to  catch  a  glimpse  of 
the  spire  of  Sandy's  kirk.  They  were  six  long,  long 
miles  to  him,  and  when  at  last  he  saw  clustering  on 
the  brow  of  a  little  hill  the  houses  of  the  village,  he 

10 


114  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

was  too  tired  to  strain  his  eyes  any  longer  in  search 
of  the  manse  or  the  kirk.  Both  were  hidden  from 
his  point  of  view,  however,  by  the  old  elms  in  the 
kirkyard. 

'  Is  thon  Lochbroom,  lassie  ? '  he  asked  a  field- worker, 
who  came  out,  hoe  in  hand,  from  a  potato  field. 

'  Ay,  that's  Lochbroom,'  she  answered.  '  It's  a  fine 
nicht.' 

'Ay,  lassie.  An'  whaur  micht  the  manse  be,  my 
wummin  ?  if  ye  could  direck  me  the  nearest  road,  I  wad 
be  muckle  obleeged.' 

'  D'ye  see  the  brig  ower  the  burn,'  she  said,  pointing 
along  the  road.  '  Weel,  gae  doon  by  the  side  o't,  an* 
follow  the  fit-path  richt  alang  tae  yon  clump  o'  trees. 
Thon's  the  kirkyaird,  an'  the  manse  gairden's  jist  beside 
it.  Ye'll  get  in  by  the  gairden  gate,  an'  up  to  the  back 
door.' 

'  Thenk  ye,  my  lassie ;  I'll  be  fain  to  see't,  I  can  tell 
ye,  for  I'm  fell  tired,'  said  the  old  man ;  then,  putting  on 
his  coat  and  hat,  for  the  cool  evening  shadows  were 
beginning  to  fall,  he  trudged  on  to  his  destination. 
When  he  reached  the  trees,  he  saw  the  spire  of  the 
church  peeping  through  the  green  boughs,  and  involun- 
tarily he  stood  still  and  took  off  his  hat.  It  was  a 
sweet  spot ;  surely  the  heart  of  man  could  desire  no 
more,  he  thought,  than  to  be  permitted  to  break  the  bread 
of  life  within  these  walls.  A  high  wall  enclosed  the 
manse  garden,  with  the  topmost  branches  of  the  fruit 
trees  only  visible  above  it.  The  old  man's  heart  began 
to  beat  a  little  quicker,  as  he  ascended  from  the  burn 
to  the  door,  and  turned  its  handle.  Once  within  the 
garden,  he  could  see  the  picturesque  church,  and  also 
the  substantial,  handsome  house  which  was  now  Sandy's 
home.  The  garden  was  richly  stocked  and  well  kept; 


AN  UNGRATEFUL  HEART.  115 

apple,  pear,  and  plum  trees  against  the  walls  were  a 
mass  of  pink  and  white  blossom,  and  all  the  spring 
flowers  were  blooming  in  the  trim  parterres.  What  a 
pride  glowed  in  the  old  man's  heart  as  he  looked  upon 
the  goodly  heritage  which  was  now  Sandy's,  and  involun- 
tarily he  added  that  his  lines  had  fallen  in  pleasant 
places. 

The  garden  rose  in  a  gentle  ascent,  and  then  there 
was  a  flight  of  stone  steps  which  went  down  to  the 
clean,  cool  stone  court  at  the  kitchen  door.  It  was  wide 
open,  and  he  could  hear  the  indistinct  murmur  of  voices 
within,  also  his  nostrils  were  greeted  by  a  very  rich  and 
savoury  odour,  which  made  him  remember  how  very 
lightly  he  had  fared  since  morning.  He  knocked  on 
the  door  with  the  head  of  his  staff,  and,  after  a  con- 
siderable time,  he  heard  a  hurried  footstep,  and  then  a 
middle-aged  woman,  very  smartly  dressed,  answered  the 
summons. 

4  Is  the  minister  at  hame,  ma'am  ? '  he  asked,  respect- 
fully, for  he  could  not  think  that  this  fine  lady  could  be 
Sandy's  servant. 

'Yes,  he's  at  home,  but  he  is  engaged.  We  have  a 
dinner-party  to-night.  It  would  be  more  convenient  if 
you  could  call  to-morrow,  unless  it  is  anything  very 
particular.' 

'  I'll  see  him  the  nicht  raither,  if  ye  please,'  said  the 
old  man.  '  Tell  him  I've  come  a  faur  road  to  see  him, 
wull  ye  ? ' 

'If  that  is  the  case  you  had  better  step  this  way/ 
she  said  in  no  very  well-pleased  way.  '  Please  make 
haste ;  I  am  waiting  the  table,  and  can  scarcely  be 
wanted.' 

'  Very  well,  my  wummin,  lead  on,'  he  said,  and 
followed  her  through  the  kitchen,  and  up-stairs  to  the 


\ 

116  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

dining-room  flat.     Then  she  showed  him  into  the  study, 
and  shut  the  door. 

With  what  deep  interest  did  John  Bethune  look 
round  the  luxurious,  well-furnished  room;  he  had 
never  been  in  so  fine  a  room  before ;  it  far  excelled 
Mr.  Bell's  study  at  Kennoway  Manse.  He  was  stand- 
ing looking  at  the  books  in  the  well-lined  shelves, 
when  the  door  was  hastily  opened ;  and  he  turned 
swiftly  round. 

'  Weel,  Sandy/  he  said  joyfully.  '  Here  I  am.  Ye 
wadna  be  expeckin'  me,  eh  ? ' 

'  Indeed  I  was  not,  father,'  said  Sandy,  and  his  face 
reddened,  whether  with  surprise  or  annoyance  it  was 
difficult  to  tell.  But  he  shook  hands  cordially  enough, 
and  bade  him  sit  down. 

'  What  tempted  you  to  come  off  in  such  a  hurry  ? 
You  should  have  written  first.' 

'  I  couldna,  man.  I  didua  ken  mysel',  till  ten  o'clock 
this  mornin',  that  I  was  coinin'.  What  way  hae  ye 
never  written  ?  I  was  fear't  something  was  wrang.' 

'  Oh,  I've  been  busy  arranging  for  supply,  and  so  on,' 
said  the  minister  briefly.  '  I  wish  I  had  known  you 
were  coming,  father.  It  is  most  unfortunate,  but  I  have 
some  of  my  leading  members  to  dinner  to-night.  They 
have  been  very  kind  to  me,  and  I  had  to  make  them 
some  sort  of  return.' 

'  Ye're  gey  sune  begun  wi'  denner-parties,  my  man,' 
said  John  Bethune  with  a  curious  smile.  '  Weel,  if 
I  had  my  face  an'  hands  gien  a  bit  wash,  I'll  just  come 
in  an'  get  a  bite'wi'  ye  to  save  bother.  Yon's  a  gey 
saucy-like  quean  ye  hae  doon  the  stair.' 

The  minister  looked  at  his  father  almost  in  dismay. 
Never  had  the  old-fashioned,  faded  blacks  looked  so  ill, 
he  thought ;  they  no  longer  fitted  the  figure  which  bad 


AN  UNGRATEFUL  HEART.  117 

shrunk  so  sadly  since  they  were  made.  How  could  he 
take  the  antiquated,  awkward-looking  figure  into  the 
next  room,  and  introduce  him  to  his  guests  ?  He  fancied 
he  saw  the  start  of  surprise,  the  ill-concealed  amuse- 
ment, with  which  he  would  be  received.  No,  he  dared 
not  face  such  humiliation. 

For  once  in  his  life  Sandy  Bethune  was  entirely 
wrong.  His  poor,  mean,  paltry  pride  made  him  misjudge 
others,  for  there  was  not  one  of  his  guests  who  would 
not  have  honoured  him  and  joined  him  in  showing 
respect  to  the  good  old  man,  who,  whatever  his  ap- 
pearance or  attire,  was  more  of  a  gentleman  than  his 
handsome  son  would  ever  be. 

'  I  don't  think  you  would  enjoy  yourself,  father. 
They  are  all  strangers  to  you,  as  well  as  to  me,'  said 
Sandy  awkwardly.  '  I  think  you  would  be  much  more 
comfortable  here ;  and  Christina  will  bring  you  up  some 
dinner.  They  won't  stay  late.  By  eight  o'clock  I'll 
be  ready  to  have  a  long  chat  with  you.' 

'  Verra  weel,  Sandy  my  man  ;  if  ye  think  yer  braw 
freen's  wad  think  shame  o'  yer  auld  faither,  I'll  bide 
here,'  said  John  Bethune  with  a  twitch  of  his  lips, 
for  Sandy's  words  went  straight  as  an  arrow  to  the 
mark,  and  wounded  him,  how  keenly  Sandy  would 
never  know. 

'Now  don't  run  away  with  that  idea.  Come  away 
to  the  dining-room  if  you  wish,'  said  Sandy  quickly. 
'  I  was  only  thinking  of  your  comfort.  Are  you  coming, 
then,  for  I  must  go  back  to  my  guests  ? ' 

'  No,  I'll  bide  here.  Awa'  ye  go,  and  dinna  fash 
aboot  me/  said  the  old  man,  striving  to  speak  more 
cheerfully.  '  If  yer  servant  wummin  '11  bring  me  a 
bite,  I'll  tak'  a  stretch  on  the  sofa,  for  I'm  sair  tired. 
I've  seen  the  day  when  sax  miles  wadna  hae  garred 


118  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

me  turn  a  hair.  I  gaed  past  Lockerbie,  ye  ken,'  he 
added,  in  answer  to  Sandy's  astonished  look,  'an' 
as  there  wasna  a  train  for  twa  hoors,  I  jist  walkit 
on.' 

'That's  worse  and  worse,'  said  Sandy.  'Well, 
Christina  shall  bring  you  a  cup  of  hot  tea  immediately ; 
and  after  your  dinner  you  can  rest  hera  Nobody  '11 
disturb  you.' 

So  saying,  the  minister  left  the  room  to  rejoin  his 
guests,  but  for  him  the  evening's  pleasure  was  spoiled. 
He  courteously  apologized  to  them  for  his  absence,  and 
again  took  part  in  the  conversation  with  his  usual 
brilliancy,  but  his  heart  was  not  at  rest.  Conscience 
smote  him,  and  he  despised  himself.  Yet  he  had  not 
the  courage  to  still  that  accusing  voice  by  obeying  its 
warning  dictates.  He  did  not  know  that  in  steeling 
himself  at  that  moment  he  was  making  it  easier  to 
repeat  the  experience ;  he  did  not  think  that  by  this 
weak  surrender  to  as  poor  and  despicable  an  idea  as  ever 
took  possession  of  a  man,  he  had  lowered  himself,  and 
taken  the  edge  off  the  finest  fibres  of  his  being.  Those 
seated  at  his  board  were  all  men  of  substance  and 
worldly  estate,  some  had  birth  and  family  heritage  to 
boast  of,  and  he  could  not  bring  before  them  the  old 
man  whose  life  had  been  spent  on  the  fields  and  at 
the  loom,  and  who  had  none  of  the  polish  of  the 
outside  world.  It  was  a  great  effort  to  him  to  sustain 
the  semblance  of  good  spirits  and  cheerfulness.  How- 
ever, he  succeeded  well,  and  his  guests  assured  him 
they  had  spent  a  happy  and  profitable  evening. 
Directly  they  were  gone,  he  hurried  into  the  study. 
His  entrance  did  not  disturb  the  old  man,  who  was 
lying  on  the  sofa  sound  asleep;  his  grey  hair  lying 
out  on  the  pillow,  his  wrinkled  and  weather-beaten 


AN  UNGRATEFUL  HEART.  119 

face  wearing  the  peaceful  expression  of  deep  repose. 
As  Sandy  looked,  his  heart  yearned  over  him,  and  he 
wished  he  bad  overcome  that  foolish  pride,  and  intro- 
duced him  to  his  guests,  when  he  was  so  willing  to 
come.  Ah,  vain  regret !  that  hour's  weakness  must 
henceforth  be  a  bitter  memory  through  life  to  the 
minister  of  Lochbroom.  He  drew  a  rug  over  the 
recumbent  figure,  and  then,  seeing  that  the  window 
was  open,  he  stepped  lightly  across  the  floor  to  shut 
it.  The  creaking  of  the  rope  awoke  the  sleeper,  and  he 
started  up. 

'  Is't  sax  o'clock,  Shoosan  ? '  he  said  drowsily,  imagining 
himself  at  home.  '  Oh,  it's  you,  Sandy  !  I  mind  whaur  I. 
am  noo.  Is  yer  folk  awa'  ? ' 

'  Yes,  they're  all  away,  and  I'm  at  your  service, 
father,'  said  Sandy  cheerfully.  '  Have  you  had  a  good 
rest  ? ' 

'No'  bad;  but,  man,  every  bane  in  my  body's  sair. 
I  doot  I've  gotten  the  cauld  wi'  the  heat  I  got  on 
the  road.  I  couldna  get  haine  the  nicht  noo,  I 
suppose  ? ' 

'  Not  likely.  Do  you  think  I  would  allow  you,  even 
though  it  were  possible  ? '  exclaimed  the  minister.  '  No, 
no ;  here  you  are,  and  here  you  must  stay  for  a  day  or 
two  at  least.' 

'Na,  na,  I  maun  gang  the  morn.  I  couldna  be  at 
name  here ;  it's  ower  braw,'  said  the  old  man,  shaking 
his  head.  '  Ay,  man,  ye've  a  fell  fine  hoose ;  I  houp  ye 
may  hae  grace  to  guide  it  a'.' 

x  '  I  hope  so,  father,'  said  Sandy  quietly,  for  he 
felt  uncomfortable  and  miserable/  he  could  not  tell 
why. 

'  I'm  jist  feart,  laddie,  that  ye'll  be  carried  awa: 
wi'  the  snares  o'  the  warld/  continued  his  father 


120  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

looking  at  him  with  a  penetrating,  wistful  eye.  'I've 
wairned  ye  afore,  an'  I  wairn  ye  again,  that  ye'll  be 
ca'ed  to  accoont  for  a'thing  the  Lord's  gien  ye.  It's 
accordin'  as  we  hae  opportunity,  ye  ken,  that  we'll  be 
judged.  Keep  an  e'e,  Sandy  my  man,  on  the  oppor- 
tunities; they  slip  by  unco  fast,  an'  we  canna  get 
grup  o'  them  when  they're  aince  by.  Man,  I'm  jist 
by-ordinar'  tired.  I'll  gang  tae  my  bed  if  ye  like. 
I'll  look  roond  aboot  the  morn  a  wee  afore  I  gang 
awa'.' 

The  minister,  anxious  to  make  amends  for  past  short- 
comings, gave  orders  to  his  housekeeper  to  set  the  guest- 
chamber  in  order  for  the  stranger,  and  went  up  himself 
afterwards  to  see  that  everything  was  right.  Long  after 
his  father  went  up-stairs,  he  heard  him  praying  in  the 
deep,  solemn  tones  he  remembered  so  well,  and  well  did 
he  know  what  was  the  burden  of  that  prayer. 

The  old  man's  heart  was  heavy  and  anxious  about 
the  son  who  had  been  the  child  of  his  many  prayers, 
and  the  dearest  object  of  his  love  and  hope  for  many  a 
year.  He  said  he  was  well  in  the  morning,  though  he 
spoke  with  a  slight  hoarseness,  the  result,  no  doubt,  of 
the  draught  from  the  open  window  in  the  study  while 
he  slept.  After  breakfast  he  took  a  hurried  walk 
through  the  churchyard,  saw  the  interior  of  the  church 
and  the  manse,  but  seemed  fearful  lest  he  should  lose 
the  morning  train.  Nothing  would  induce  him  to 
remain  at  Lochbroom  another  hour.  Seeing  his  persist- 
ence, Sandy  forbore  to  press  him,  and  went  as  far  as 
Lockerbie  with  him  to  see  him  safely  into  the  Edin- 
burgh train. 

'Weel,  Sandy,  I'm  glad  I've  seen  yer  pairt,'  he  said 
at  parting.  '  I'll  maybe  be  mair  content  at  hame  noo. 
Look  weel  after  it,  my  man,  an'  dinna  forget  that 


AN   UNGRATEFUL  HEART.  121 

it's  the  Lord's  vineyaird,  an'  that  ye  maun  dress  it 
for  Him.  May  He  bless  ye,  my  son,  for  ever  and 
ever.' 

The  solemn  words  were  almost  like  a  benediction, 
and  a  vague,  indefinable  sadness  took  possession  of  the 
young  minister  as  the  train  slowly  steamed  out  of  the 
station,  and  he  looked  his  last  on  his  father's  face. 
Most  of  us  have  experienced  a  similar  premonition, 
when  the  dark  shadow  of  a  final  parting  has  first 
whispered  itself  to  our  hearts. 

At  home,  James  Bethune  had  found  it  difficult  to 
concentrate  his  attention  on  his  work.  Soon  after 
dinner-time  he  dressed'  himself  and  went  away  down 
to  Markinch  to  be  in  time  for  the  afternoon  train, 
saying  to  his  aunt  that,  if  his  father  did  not  come  with 
it,  he  would  wait  in  the  town  till  six  o'clock.  It  was 
by  the  latter  train  that  the  old  man  arrived.  Jamie 
saw  him  the  moment  he  alighted,  and  thought  he 
looked  better  than  when  he  went  away,  he  had  such  a 
fine  ruddy  colour  on  his  cheek. 

'  Weel,  ye  loon,  hae  ye  gotten  back  again  ? '  he  said  with 
a  smile,  when  the  old  man  came  up  the  steps.  '  Ye've 
lost  half  a  day's  wark  to  me  as  weel's  yer  ain  wi'  yer 
stravaginV 

A  bright  light  sprang  into  the  old  man's  face,  and  he 
laid  his  hand  on  his  son's  strong  young  arm,  and  looked 
up  into  his  face  with  an  expression  which  Jamie  never 
forgot.  It  was  absolute  in  its  trust  and  confidence  and 
love. 

x  'Eh,  Jamie,  I'm  gled  to  see  ye,  an'  I'm  fain  to  be 
at  ha  me  again,'  he  said ;  '  I'll  no'  seek  to  gang  sae  faur 
frae  hame  my  lane  again.' 

'  I  think  no' ;  but  Sandy  wad  be  prood  to  see 
you?' 

11 


122  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

'Oo  ay,  but  there's  nae  place  like  hame.  Man,  thae 
railway  trains  tires  an  auld  body  when  they're  no' 
accustomed  to  them.  I  think  I've  gotten  the  cauld,  tae ; 
I  dinna  feel  weel.' 

'  I'm  vext  to  hear  that,'  said  Jamie  in  his  quiet,  kind 
way.  '  Here's  Balfour,  see ;  we'll  hae  a  hurl  hame.' 

And  before  the  old  man  could  demur,  the  order  was 
given,  and  in  a  few  minutes  one  of  the  inn  cabs  was 
carrying  them  easily  and  quickly  up  the  brae  to  the 
Star.  The  flush  still  remained  on  the  old  man's  cheek, 
and  once  when  Jamie  touched  his  hand,  it  was  burning, 
and  there  was  a  feverishness  in  the  very  brightness  of  his 
eye  which  he  did  not  like. 

Jamie  dismissed  the  cab  at  the  wickets,  in  order  that 
Aunt  Susan  might  not  be  alarmed  to  see  them  drive  up 
to  the  door.  But  directly  she  got  them  in  she  saw  that 
there  was  something  amiss,  and,  without  ado  or  remark, 
she  ordered  the  old  man  to  his  bed,  first  making  him 
bathe  his  feet  and  drink  a  bowl  of  gruel. 

'Ye've  surely  gotten  eneuch  jauntin'  to  serve  ye  a 
while,'  was  her  sole  comment  on  the  affair.  But  after 
he  fell  asleep,  she  confided  her  fears  to  Jamie. 

'  He's  gotten  an  awfu'  cauld.  If  he's  no'  better  in  the 
mornin',  ye  maun  get  Dr.  Hay  ower  frae  Leslie.  It's 
no'  a  canny  thing  to  let  a  cauld  get  sutten  doon  on  an 
auld  body.' 

'  What  can  hae  gien  him  the  cauld  ?  I'm  sure  baith 
yesterday  and  the  day  hae  been  warm.' 

1  Oh,  he'll  hae  been  in  a  damp  bed  !  These  jades  o' 
servants,  ill  tak'  them,  dinna  care  where  they  pit 
folk.' 

'  But  surely  Sandy  would  look  after  that,  auntie  ? ' 

'  Sandy  ! '  echoed  Aunt  Susan  in  grim  scorn.  '  He 
hasna  as  inuckle  gumption  as  a  taed,  or  he  wadna  hae 


AN  UNGRATEFUL  HEART.  123 

let  him  awa'  wi'  sic  a  cauld  on  him.  But  I'se  warrant 
ye,  yer  faither  bides  at  harne  efter  this,  or  I'm 
cheatit.' 

Aunt  Susan  was  right.  The  old  man  went  no  more 
from  home ;  for  next  time  he  crossed  the  threshold  of 
his  own  door,  he  wa^  carried  by  loving,  tender,  reverent 
hands  to  his  last  rest  beside  his  wife  in  Kennoway 
kirkyard. 

His  illness  was  brief,  but  fatal  in  its  issue.  He  had 
not  strength  to  struggle  with  the  weakness  consequent 
upon  severe  congestion  of  the  lungs,  and  succumbed 
exactly  a  \\  eek  from  the  day  when  he  had  set  out  so  full 
of  hope  to  visit  Sandy  at  Lochbroom.  All  he  loved  were 
by  him  when  he  died,  but  he  was  unconscious  -of  their 
presence.  His  talk  was  all  of  Katie ;  he  seemed  to 
think  she  was  at  his  side. 

And  so  he  died — a  good  man,  full  of  years,  whose 
place  would  never  be  filled  to  the  many  who  had  long 
loved  and  honoured  him  in  the  Star.  He  had  lived 
knowing  he  must  die,  and  so,  when  it  came,  death  was  to 
him  great  gain. 


CHAPTER   X. 


SANDY  S  WORD. 

'Earth  can  forge  no  keener  weapon, 

Dealing  surer  death  and  pain; 
And  the  cruel  echo  answered 
Through  long  years  again.' 

A.  A.  PUOCTKB. 


a  little  hillock  among  the  heather  and 
bracken  on  the  moss  sat  the  brothers,  now 
orphaned,  on  the  evening  of  their  father's 
burying.  They  had  much  to  say  to  each 
other,  and  the  neighbours,  with  their  usual 
officious  kindness,  had  taken  possession  of  the 
house,  and  there  was  not  a  quiet  corner  in  it. 
Susan  Bethune,  grown  garrulous  in  her  age,  was  more 
tolerant  of  their  intrusion,  and  was  even  glad  of  their 
company.  John's  death  had  given  her  a  great  shock, 
from  which  it  was  predicted  by  the  wives  that  she 
would  never  recover.  Perhaps  Sandy's  grief  was  the 
most  poignant,  at  least  it  was  more  demonstrative, 
possibly  because  it  was  commingled  with  remorse,  of 
which  the  others  knew  nothing.  John  Bethune  had 

124 


SANDY'S  WORD.  -25 

prudently  kept  his  own  counsel,  and,  though  lie  had  told 
them  all  about  Lochbroom,  he  said  nothing  of  the  cool 
reception  he  had  met  with.  But  Sandy  could  not  forget. 
He  was  too  miserable  to  think  of  anything  but  the  events 
of  the  past  week.  The  Assembly  had  now  met,  but  he 
felt  no  desire  to  go,  though  he  had  looked  forward  with 
pleasurable  anticipation  to  making  his  first  appearance 
there  as  a  placed  minister.  Jamie  had  little  to  say  ;  he 
could  not  vent  his  feelings  in  tears  or  in  many  words  ; 
only  he  knew  that  to  him  his  father's  death  would  be  a 
life-long  sorrow. 

'  The  Star's  fast  changin',  Sandy,'  said  Jamie.  '  The 
auld  folk's  slippin'  awa'  by  degrees.  This'll  mak'  a 
difference  to  us  baith.' 

'  Not  very  much.  You'll  miss  him  most,  of  course, 
— you  and  Aunt  Susan/  said  Sandy  with  a  gulp. 
'  It'll  be  easier  for  me,  I  daresay  ;  my  work  is  more 
engrossing  than  yours.  Head  work  always  is.' 

Jamie  sat  silent  a  moment,  watching  the  red  sunset 
glowing  behind  the  Lomond  Hill,  with  a  strange,  far-off 
look  in  his  eyes.  It  was  a  bright,  still,  beautiful  evening, 
calculated  to  soothe  and  comfort  the  most  troubled  spirit. 
The  air  was  full  of  low  twitterings,  for  the  birds  were  all 
busy  and  happy,  knowing  the  glad,  bright  summer  was 
come  at  last.  The  soft  evening  breeze  was  laden  with 
those  delicious  scents  to  which  we  cannot  give  a  name — 
the  tribute  of  the  wayside  blossoms  to  the  wealth  of 
summer  sweets.  The  cows  were  already  out  on  the 
young  grass,  and  were  dotted  here  and  there  over  the 
fields,  lending  a  pleasant  variety  to  the  scene. 

'  When  are  ye  gaun  to  be  married,  Sandy  ? '  asked 
Jamie  quite  suddenly,  after  following  the  flight  of  a 
swallow  till  it  was  lost  in  the  blue  expanse  above  the 
Knowe. 


126  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

'  Married  !  What  a  thing  to  speak  about  to-night,' 
said  Sandy  quickly.  '  I  don't  know  when  I  shall  be 
married  ;  perhaps  never  ! ' 

'  An'  what  about  Mary  Campbell  ? '  asked  Jamie 
quietly,  feeling  impelled  to  continue  the  subject,  though 
he  saw  from  Sandy's  face  that  it  was  not  altogether 
pleasant  to  him. 

Sandy  sat  silent  for  a  moment ;  his  brother's  words 
had  diverted  his  thoughts  into  an  entirely  new  channel. 

'  She  must  just  wait  my  time  ! '  he  said  rather  crossly. 
'Women  are  such  a  bother,  Jamie.  They're  always,  so 
much  in  earnest,  and  so  anxious  to  get  through  with 
things.' 

'  But  you  will  marry  her  some  day  ? ' 

'Oh,  I  suppose  so.  I  don't  know  what  you  will 
think  of  me,  Jamie  ;  but,  between  ourselves,  it  was  a 
great  mistake  of  me  to  engage  with  Mary  Campbell.' 

'  I  aye  thocht  ye  was  ower  sune  begun,  but  efter  ye 
grew  older,  an'  aye  gaed  aboot  her,  I  thocht  it  was  a' 
richt.  But,  Sandy,  ye  maun  gang  through  wi't  noo. 
It  wad  be  a  great  sin  to  leave  her,  an'  she's  a  bonnie, 
sweet,  winsome  lassie,  if  ever  there  was  ane.' 

'  She  wad  be  the  very  wife  for  you,  Jamie,'  said  Sandy 
quickly ;  but  Jamie  just  shook  his  head. 

'  I'll  never  marry,  Sandy.  To  me  what  folks  ca'  love's 
a  great  mystery.  A'  weemin's  alike  to  me.' 

'  If  you  could  just  be  in  my  shoes  for  a  week  down 
yonder,  Jamie,  it  would  convince  you  more  than  my 
speaking  for  a  week  that  I  have  made  a  mistake,  a  great 
mistake !  Why,  Mary  could  no  more  hold  her  own  in 
the  manse  of  Lochbroom  or  mix  with  the  ladies  yonder 
than  she  could  fly  in  the  air.  She  would  be  like  the 
lady  Tennyson  writes  of,  Lord  Burleigh's  wife,  who  was 
bowed  down  with  a  weight  of  honour  unto  which  she 


SANDY'S   WORD.  127 

was  not  born.  I  wish  I  knew  what  to  do,'  said  Sandy, 
picking  the  green  tops  from  the  heather  and  tossing 
them  impatiently  aside.  '  I  sometimes  get  sick  tired  of 
life,  Jamie.  Things  go  so  contrary  always.' 

'  It's  jist  as  ye  look  at  life,  I  think.  I  aince  thocht 
that  tae,  but  when  I  got  a  clear  glimpse  o'  my  duty,  I 
did  it,  an'  a'  thing  cam'  richt.' 

'  Well,  what  would  you  say  was  my  duty  in  this  case  ? ' 
asked  Sandy  eagerly. 

'  To  marry  Mary  Campbell  as  sune  as  ye  can,  and  mak' 
up  yer  mind  to  mak'  her  as  happy  as  ye  can.  She's  a 
quick,  clever  lassie,  an'  she'll  pick  up  fine  ways  in  nae 
time.  She  hasna  a  chance  in  the  Star.  She'll  win  them 
a'  wi'  her  blithe  winsomeness.  Nae  fear  o'  them 
wonderin'  at  her.  I  suppose  they  a'  ken  you  belang  to 
workin'  folk.  If  ye  like  her  as  weel  as  ye  did,  ye'll  be 
as  happy  as  the  day's  lang.' 

'  But  that's  exactly  where  it  lies,  Jamie.  Supposing, 
now,  that  there  was  another  whom  I  liked  ten  thousand 
times  better  than  Mary  Campbell,  what  would  my  duty 
be  ? '  asked  Sandy  eagerly. 

Jamie  turned  his  head,  and  looked  his  brother  straight 
in  the  face. 

'  Is  that  hoo  it  is,  Sandy  ? '  he  asked  gravely. 

'  Yes  ;  and,  man,  if  you  saw  her,  Beatrice  Lorraine, 
you  would  not  be  astonished  at  me  even  for  a  moment. 
She  is  like  some  queen  or  princess,  whom  everybody 
must  fall  down  and  worship.  Beside  her  Mary  Campbell 
would  look  something  like  what  yon  evening  star  will 
look  by  and  by  when  the  moon  is  up,'  said  Sandy  in  a 
quick,  impassioned  voice.  '  I  tell  you,  you  know  nothing 
about  it.  Yon's  the  kind  of  woman  to  take  possession 
of  a  man's  whole  soul,  and  make  him  feel  that  he  could 
do  or  dare  anything  to  win  her.' 


128  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

Jamie  Bethune,  looked  at  his  brother  with  a  kind  of 
strange,  sad  wonder.  There  was  something  almost  fear- 
some in  such  a  passion ;  surely  it  could  not  be  a  good 
thing  for  any  man  to  be  so  set  upon  a  creature  of  clay 
like  himself. 

'  I  dinna  ken  what  to  say,  Sandy.  Ye  are  beyond  me 
a'  thegither.' 

'  Think  what  a  help  such  a  woman  would  be  to  a 
man.  Why,  with  Beatrice  Lorraine  at  my  side,  I  could 
rise  in  the  world  as  high  as  it  is  possible  in  my  pro- 
fession. She  would  open  the  door  of  any  society,  and  I 
can  tell  you  there  is  more  in  a  woman's  tact  and  ability 
than  in  a  man's  genius  to  raise  him  in  the  world.  Why, 
with  a  right  wife,  there  is  nothing  a  man  may  not  aspire 
to  and  attain.  Mary  Campbell  is  a  sweet,  nice  country 
girl,  I  grant  you ;  but  she  would  s^'-nply  be  a  drag  on  me 
all  my  days,  and  I  would  need  to  be  content  in  Loch- 
broom  to  the  end  of  the  chapter.' 

'  If  that  be  the  case,  the  suner  ye  tell  her  sae  the 
better,  Sandy ;  but  I  wadna  like  yer  job,'  said  Jamie  in  a 
quiet,  cold,  stern  voice.  '  Is  she  a  foreigner,  this 
woman  ? ' 

'  No ;  her  father  is  English,  a  retired  merchant  who 
bought  the  estate  of  Nethercleugh  from  the  Earl  of 
Lockerbie.' 

'  So  they're  gentry,'  said  Jamie,  and  he  dropped  his 
head  on  his  hand  and  sat  silent  again.  Somehow  he  felt 
himself  estranged  from  his  brother  more  than  he  had  ever 
been,  for  there  was  something  within  him  which  told 
him  Sandy  was  far,  far  wrong.  Oh,  was  this  to  be  the 
end  of  the  old  man's  prayers  ?  Better,  then,  that  he  was 
away  before  he  saw  his  son  wholly  given  up  to  the 
world. 

'Of  course   you   think    I'm   a   perfect    wretch,'    said 


SANDY'S   WORD.  129 

Sandy  at  length ;  '  but,  as  I  said,  you  know  nothing  about 
it.  After  all,  I  don't  think  it's  advisable  to  bring  up 
children  above  their  station  as  I  have  been ;  it  only 
makes  them  discontented.  I  often  envy  you,  Jamie, 
quite  content  as  you  are  with  the  land  and  the  loom 
and  your  book  of  an  evening.  You  can't  have  any  idea 
of  the  struggle  a  fellow  has  in  the  outside  world,  fighting 
against  the  disadvantages  of  birth  and  upbringing.  They 
clog  his  footsteps  all  his  days.' 

Jamie  sat  silent  still.  He  felt  no  desire  to  confide 
aught  of  his  own  battle  to  his  brother ;  it  would  lie  for 
ever  between  himself  and  God. 

'  Then  you  mean  to  marry  this  lady  ? '  he  said  at 
length. 

'  I  wish  I  thought  I  had  a  chance,'  said  Sandy,  hia 
breath  coming  quick  and  fast  again.  '  She  is  such  a  calm, 
still,  unfathomable  creature,  that  it  is  impossible  to  guess 
at  her  feelings.  That's  what  makes  her  so  desirable. 
Most  women  are  ready  to  be  made  love  to  at  any  time, 
but  you  never  get  any  nearer  to  Beatrice  Lorraine.' 

'  But  ye're  gaun  to  try  onyway  ? ' 

'  Yes  ;  I  am  trying  now.' 

'  Well,  ye'll  tell  Mary  Campbell  afore  ye  gang  awa', 
an'  ye'll  be  honest  wi'  her,  or  I'll  tell  her  mysel'/  said 
Jamie  almost  passionately,  for  he  felt  for  Mary  almost 
as  if  she  had  been  his  own  sister. 

'  I'll  not  promise  to  see  her ;  I  can't  stand  a  woman's 
tears  and  that  kind  of  thing.  But  I'll  explain  it  all  in  a 
letter,  and  I'm  sure  she'll  thank  me  for  it  some  day.  She 
will  be  far  happier  with  some  one  else.' 

'  It's  weel  ye  can  comfort  yersel'  wi'  that,'  said  Jamie. 
M  dinna  ken  muckle  aboot  sic  things,  Sandy,  but  it 
seems  to  me  that  ye  are  actin'  the  part  o'  a  mean 
scoondrel,  an'  if  I  were  Mary  Campbell's  brother, 


130  TEE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

I'd  break  a  stick  ower  yer  back,  minister  though 
ye  be.' 

'  Oh,  come  now !  there's  no  use  speaking  like  that,  you 
know,'  said  Sandy,  his  face  reddening.  '  Not  a  minute 
ago  you  said  it  was  my  duty  to  give  up  Mary  if  I 
liked  another  better.  It's  the  best  kindness  I  can 
do  her.' 

Jamie  was  miserably  vexed  and  distressed.  This 
was  a  strange,  sad  ending  to  their  father's  funeral 
day. 

'  I  think  we'll  better  slip  awa'  hame,  Sandy,'  he  said, 
rising  to  his  feet.  '  This  is  neither  a  pleasant  nor  a 
profitable  conversation.' 

'  You  are  not  much  help  or  comfort  to  a  fellow,  Jamie. 
I'd  do  more  for  you,'  said  Sandy  reproachfully.  '  I'm  sure 
I  mean  to  do  right,  and  I  try  hard  enough,  I  can  tell 
you.  If  you  knew  more  about  it,  you  wouldn't  be  so 
hard  on  me.' 

'  I  diuna  mean  to  be  hard  on  ye,  Sandy.  We've  need 
to  be  freen's  noo,  for  there's  only  us  twa,'  said  Jamie,  for 
all  at  once  a  sense  of  his  own  utter  desolation  swept  over 
him,  and  nearly  unmanned  him.  '  It's  my  turn  to  speak 
1100.  I'm  no'  gaun  to  bide  in  the  Star,  Sandy.' 

'  Not  bide  in  the  Star  ?  Then  where  on  earth 
nre  you  going  ? '  asked  Sandy  in  the  purest  amaze- 
ment. 

'  I  dinna  ken  yet,  but  as  sune  as  I  get  things  settled 
I'm  gaun  awa'.  My  wark  here's  through  noo,  an'  there's 
nae  use  for  me  to  bide.' 

'  But  what  do  you  mean  ?  What  are  you  going 
to  do?' 

'  I'm  gaun  into  a  newspaper  office  in  the  toon,  an' 
I'll  work  my  way  up,'  said  Jamie  briefly,  for  it  was  a 
trial  of  no  ordinary  kind  for  him  to  subject  himself  and 


SANDY'S   WORD.  131 

his  life-dreams  to  Sandy's  cold,  critical,  contemptuous 
opinion. 

'  A  nevvspnper  office  !  Are  you  daft,  Jamie  Bethune  ? 
What  would  a  felbw  like  you  do  there  ?  What  has  put 
such  a  thing  into  your  head  ? ' 

'  It's  been  in  my  heid  for  ten  or  eleeven  years ;  it's  no" 
a  new  freit,'  said  Jamie  quietly.  '  I've  been  workin'  an' 
gettin'  mysel'  ready  when  folk  kent  naething  aboot  it. 
I'm  no'  askin'  naething  frae  you,  Sandy ;  but  1  wadna 
dae  sic  a  thing  withoot  tellin'  you,  because  there's  only 
you  an'  me  left.' 

'  It  is  well  you  don't  expect  anything  from  me,'  said 
Sandy  loftily,  '  because  you  won't  get  it.  I'll  never  give 
my  countenance  to  such  a  thing,  and  if  you  persist  in  your 
idiotic  determination,  you  must  just  bear  the  brunt  of  it. 
You  can  make  a  good  thing  of  it  here,  and  there's  nothing 
to  hinder  you  from  taking  a  farm,  and  making  a  good 
position  for  yourself  in  that  way.  But  a  year  or  two  in 
the  city  will  soon  convince  you  of  your  folly,  and  you'll 
remember  my  warning  when  your  money's  all  spent,  and 
you  find  yourself  only  an  atom  in  that  miserable  stream 
of  humanity  which  folk  call  the  poor.' 

Sandy  was  the  fine,  highly-educated  gentleman  now, 
talking  in  his  most  offensive  and  grandiloquent  strain ; 
his  brother  felt  it,  but  kept  his  natural  resentment  to 
himself. 

'  I've  coontit  the  cost,  an'  I  ken  what  I'm  daein','  he 
said  firmly.  '  If  I  fail,  I'll  no'  trouble  you,  Sandy ;  yell 
never  need  to  think  shame  o'  me.' 

'  Fact  is,  you've  read  those  humbugging  and  senti- 
mental biographies  and  autobiographies  till  you've  got 
the  length  of  imagining  yourself  a  genius,'  said  Sandy 
scathingly.  '  I  tell  you  it  won't  do.  Hundreds  besides 
you  have  allowed  themselves  to  be  led  away  by  a  similar 


132  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

idea,  and  lived  to  rue  it  bitterly.  I  assure  you  there's 
no  room  for  you,  and  if  you  go  into  a  newspaper  office, 
it'll  just  be  to  set  up  types  all  your  days.' 

'Ye  seem  to  hae  judged  my  capabilities  wi'  wunnerfu' 
exactness,'  said  Jamie  with  a  touch  of  bitter  humour. 
'  Weel,  we'll  drap  the  subject.  I'm  no'  a  bairn  noo,  ye 
maun  mind,  but  a  man,  wha  kens  what's  what  as 
weel's  yersel'.  I'll  gang  my  way,  an'  you  can  gang 
yours,  an'  we'll  no  fash  ane  anither  mair  nor  we 
can  help.' 

'  All  right.  This  is  your  doing,  not  mine,  remember,' 
said  Sandy  shortly,  and  turning  upon  his  heel  he  left 
his  brother  to  finish  his  walk  alone. 

Jamie  returned  slowly  to  the  house,  thinking  over 
many  things.  He  was  grieved  and  hurt  at  the  way  in 
which  Sandy  had  received  his  confidence,  yet  not  sur- 
prised. There  was  a  soreness  in  his  heart  which  was 
almost  anger,  for  when  had  he  denied  his  help  or 
sympathy  any  time  when  Sandy  had  seemed  to  need  it  ? 
Henceforth  he  must  walk  life's  way  alone ;  there  was 
something  in  the  very  thought  which  made  his  heart 
swell  with  a  new  resolution,  and  stirred  his  pulses.  In 
the  house  he  found  his  aunt  alone,  sitting  close  to  the 
fire  although  the  warm,  genial  sunshine  was  playing 
about  her  feet.  As  he  looked  at  the  grey,  weather- 
beaten  old  woman,  a  deep,  peculiar  tenderness  took 
possession  of  him,  for  she  loved  him ;  had  she  not  given 
proof  of  it  through  these  many  years  of  faithful,  untiring 
service  ? 

'  Are  ye  a'  yer  lane,  auntie  ? '  he  said  gently ;  and  she 
looked  up  at  him  with  an  affectionate  smile. 

'  I  was  thinkin'  aboot  ye,  laddie.  Sandy  '11  be  awa'  to 
the  Knowe,  I  suppose  ?  Sit  doon  an'  let's  hae  a  crack.' 

Jamie  drew  in  his  chair,  and  Aunt  Susan  leaned  her 


SANDY'S  WORD.  133 

elbows  on  her  knees,  and,  with  her  chin  in  her  hand, 
looked  at  him  with  a  mingling  of  keen  interest  and  deep 
affection.  '  D'ye  ken  what  I  was  thinkin',  Jamie,  as  I 
sat  my  lane  ? '  she  asked.  '  I  was  thinking  that  yer 
wark's  by  in  the  Star,  an'  that  there'll  be  naething  to 
hinder  ye  frae  gaun  awa'  noo,  whaur  yer  heart's  been 
for  mony  a  day.' 

Jamie  started  in  the  greatness  of  his  surprise. 

'  Ay,  ye  thocht  yer  auld  auntie  saw  naething,  though 
she  keepit  quiet.  My  man,  I  likit  ye  ower  weel  no  tae 
be  concerned  in  what  concerned  you,'  she  said  with  a 
shrewd  smile.  '  Brawly  did  I  ken  whaur  a'  yer  book 
lare  an'  readin'  was  takin'  ye,  an'  noo  I'm  gaun  to  say 
my  say,  an'  syne  you  can  say  yours.  Ye've  bidden  here, 
I  ken,  for  yer  faither's  sake,  an'  I  ken  it's  in  ye  to  bide 
for  mine ;  a'body  afore  yersel'  wi'  you,  Jamie,  an'  has  aye 
been ;  but  I  wadna  thole  that.  So  I've  gotten't  a'  redd 
up  in  my  ain  mind.  Ye'll  gang  awa'  to  the  toon,  an' 
I'll  bide  an'  keep  the  place  for  ye ;  I'm  no'  that  failed 
yet  but  what  I  can  dae  my  turn.  An'  there's  Dauvit 
Cam'll,  ye  ken,  aye  ready  to  help ;  ay,  an'  there's  twa 
three  mair  that'll  dae  me  a  guid  turn  for  your  sake, 
laddie,  an'  for  the  sake  o'  them  that's  awa'.  Wheesht !  let 
me  say  my  say.  I'll  keep  a  hame  for  ye,  my  laddie,  so 
that  ye'll  no'  feel  yersel'  an  orphan  a'  thegither,  an'  the 
gear  '11  aye  be  getherin',  ye  ken,  an'  ye'll  maybe  need  it  a'. 
Jist  ae  thing  mair :  ye  need  want  for  naething,  Jamie, 
for  a'  I  hae  is  yours.  Sandy's  faur  abune  the  likes  o' 
me  noo,  an'  wad  likely  be  abune  my  siller  tae.  No'  a 
word  noo.  I've  settled  it  a' ;  an',  Jamie,  ye  hae  yer 
faither's  blessin',  for  I  telt  him  no'  lang  syne  what  I 
thocht  ye  was  efter,  an'  he  said —  But  there,  I'll  keep 
that  wee  bit  or  some  day  when  ye're  dowie  an'  need 
something  to  cheer  ye  on.' 


134  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

James  Bethune  sat  silent  a  moment,  for  his  thoughts 
lay  upon  him  like  a  great  deep  flood,  which  could  find  no 
vent.  Then  Aunt  Susan  reached  out  one  withered  hand, 
and  Jamie  took  it  in  both  his  own,  and  after  a  moment 
raised  it  to  his  lips.  The  impulse  would  not  be  set 
aside,  and  the  little  graceful  act  was  only  the  due 
reverence  to  the  woman  who  had  been  to  him  a  mother 
indeed. 

*  I'll  never  forget,  auntie,'  he  said  huskily ;  '  an'  if 
I  ever  think  lichtly  o'  a'  ye  hae  been  an"  dune  for  me, 
then  may  God  punish  me  as  I  shall  deserve.' 

Susan  Bethune  wiped  her  eyes,  but  there  was  a  smile 
upon  her  lips.  Oh,  was  not  this  one  hour  of  deep  satis- 
faction compensation  indeed  for  all  her  anxiety  and 
toil  ?  She  had  redeemed  her  vow  to  Katie  Law,  and, 
even  if  she  was  summoned  to  meet  her  now,  she  need 
not  be  ashamed. 

It  was  late  at  night  when  Sandy  came  in,  and  he  left 
by  the  early  train  in  the  morning.  The  parting  between 
the  brothers  was  brief  and  constrained,  and  Jamie  did 
not  as  usual  convoy  him  part  of  the  way  to  the  station. 

'  If  you  think  better  of  your  foolish  project,  I  shall  be 
glad  to  hear  from  you/  was  all  Sandy  said ;  but  Jamie 
answered  never  a  word.  He  was  too  deeply  hurt  to 
forget  all  in  a  moment.  Sensitive,  long-suffering  natures 
take  long  to  recover  from  a  wound  which  a  shallower 
spirit  could  cast  flippantly  aside.  His  mind  was  made 
up  to  remain  in  Star  till  the  harvest  was  past,  so  that 
there  would  be  as  little  as  possible  requiring  his  aunt's 
supervision  at  the  farm.  Through  the  summer  he  con- 
fided his  plans  and  hopes  to  David  Campbell,  from  whom 
he  received  such  kindly  encouragement  and  good-will  as 
did  his  heart  good. 

*  I  dinna  pretend  to  understaun'  what  ye're  efter,  Jamie; 


SANDY'S  WORD.  135 

but  this  I  ken,  that  whatever  ye  dae  ye'll  dae  weel ;  an' 
yer  faither  often  said  lately  that  the  Star  wad  never 
haud  ye.  An'  I  dinna  think  ye'll  ever  think  shame  o' 
the  Star  like  some  we  could  name,'  said  the  honest 
man ;  and  Jamie  saw  the  dark  shadow  cross  the  open, 
cheerful  countenance,  and  felt  a  pang  at  his  own  heart. 
'  It'll  never  be  noo,  Jamie,'  said  the  maister,  lower- 
ing his  voice.  'Mary  hersel'  kens  that,  an'  Jean  was 
tellin'  me  she  had  lock  it  a'  the  bits  o'  things  she  had 
been  sewin'  at  awa'  in  her  box.  Forgie  me  sayin't, 
Jamie,  but  he'll  never  prosper,  minister  though  ha 
be,  an',  God  forgie  me,  I  can  hardly  wush  him  weel. 
He  may  get  a  brawer,  but  he'll  ne'er  get  a  better  nor 
oor  Mary.' 

'Dauvit,  I  wad  gie  my  richt  hand  if  Sandy  hadna 
dune't,'  said  Jamie,  the  veins  in  his  forehead  starting  in 
his  deep  feeling.  '  Ye  ken  my  opeenion  o'  his  conduct, 
I  am  sure.' 

'  Ay,  ay,  ye  are  a  different  make.  Weel,  my  man,  as 
lang  as  yer  auntie  bides  doon  the  road,  I'll  gie  an  e'e 
till  the  place,  ye  ken  that.  Is't  newspaper  writin'  ye're 
gaun  in  for,  or  what  ? ' 

'  Whatever  I  can  get  to  dae  at  first,'  answered  Jamie  ; 
'  whatever  comes  readiest  to  my  hand.  Maybe  I'll  be 
able  to  write  something  some  day.1 

'  Aweel,  it's  extraordinar'  to  think  the  twasome  o'  ye 
should  be  seekin'  the  same  gate.  Sandy's  a  clever  loon, 
but  he  hasna  balance*  Keep  yer  balance,  Jamie,  what- 
ever success  ye  hae, — a  man's  naething  withoot  balance, 
— an'  I  wush  ye  weeL' 

Peter  Bethune  was  in  a  furious  rage  when  he  learned 
of  his  nephew's  intention.  He  would  not  even  listen  to 
any  explanation  whatsoever,  but  swore  that  he  could  go 
where  he  liked,  but  that  he  would  never  finger  a  copper 


136  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

of  his  money,  or  again  darken  his  door.  He  also 
flatly  refused  to  give  Susan  a  helping  hand  with  the 
land,  at  which  neither  Jamie  nor  his  aunt  was  greatly 
put  about.  They  were  better  without  his  interference, 
and  there  were  many  willing  hearts  and  hands  in  the 
Star. 


CHAPTER   XL 


TRIED. 

'  Young  dreamer,  God  is  great  J 
Tis  glorious  to  suffer, 
"Tis  majesty  to  wait.' 


we  are  meditating  some  great  change 
in  our  lives,  or  are  about  to  take  some 
important  step,  upon  which  may  hinge  the 
very  issues  of  our  destiny,  we  seem  to  live 
in  a  strange,  unreal  world,  which  possesses 
terrors  as  well  as  charms  for  us.  We  have 
proved  the  past  by  experience  ;  the  present  is 
still  with  us  ;  it  is  the  future  we  yearn  over  and  yet 
dread.  All  change  involves  more  possibilities  than 
certainties,  and  so  naturally  we  hesitate  a  little,  almost 
fearing  to  go  forward.  But  when  we  are  convinced  of 
the  wisdom  of  our  choice,  and  the  final  resolve  taken, 
then  half  the  vague  terrors  which  oppressed  us  seem  to 
fade  away.  Resolution  is  the  parent  of  oalmness  and 
strength,  and  with  these  two  we  are  well  equipped  for 
the  battle  of  life.  James  Bethune  was  giateful  for  the 
kind  wishes  and  good  will  which  he  knew  would  follow 


138  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

him  into  his  new  life;  their  memory  would  somewhat 
sweeten  the  anxious  toil  of  the  future.  He  would  be 
utterly  alone  and  unaided,  for  none  of  those  who  wished 
him  well  could  help  him,  save  by  their  prayers.  As  he 
made  his  preparations  a  calmness  of  spirit,  unlike  any- 
thing he  had  previously  experienced,  gave  him  new 
strength  and  courage  to  go  forward.  The  die  was  cast ; 
he  had  revealed  his  aim  and  purpose,  and  now  it 
remained  for  him  to  prove  upon  what  ground  he  had 
dared  so  to  aspire.  Should  he  fail — but  what  young, 
strong,  passionate  heart  ever  admitted  the  possibility  of 
failure  in  its  ardent  undertakings  ?  It  were  a  poor 
world  but  for  the  perpetual  dayspring  of  hope  in  the 
human  heart.  He  had  only  one  acquaintance  in  Edin- 
burgh, one  Adam  Farquhar,  cousin  to  his  friend  the 
schoolmaster ;  who  had  been  wont  to  spend  every 
holiday  he  could  spare  at  the  Star.  James  Bethune 
had  met  and  grown  very  friendly  with  him  at  the 
schoolhouse,  and  had  received  many  a  hearty  invitation 
to  pay  a  visit  to  him  in  Edinburgh.  Adam  Farquhar 
had  a  bookseller's  shop  in  Bank  Street,  and  did  a  steady 
if  somewhat  slow  business  among  the  lovers  of  old  and 
rare  books.  James  Bethune  had  often  thought  of 
writing  to  him  and  laying  before  him  his  desires  and 
aims,  but,  feeling  that  a  meeting  face  to  face  would  be 
more  effectual  and  satisfactory,  he  went  away  over  to 
Edinburgh  one  grey  October  day  to  ask  his  advice. 
The  nature  of  his  business  would  probably  bring  him 
into  contact  with  literary  and  newspaper  folk,  and 
perhaps  he  might  be  able  to  procure  an  opening  for 
the  lad  in  whom  his  cousin  had  taken  such  a  deep 
interest.  In  thus  seeking  the  advice  of  the  bookseller, 
James  Bethune  showed  his  wisdom.  He  was  no  idle 
dreamer,  who  imagined  the  world  an  El  Dorado,  where 


TRIED.  139 

fame  and  fortune  awaited  the  adventurer  at  every  turn, 
but  only  an  earnest  soul,  seeking  his  life  work,  pre- 
pared to  endure  hardship  and  privation  if  only  some 
of  life's  grand  possibilities  might  become  realities  to 
him. 

It  had  been  a  grey,  misty  morning  when  he  left  the 
shores  of  Fife,  but  in  Edinburgh  the  mist  was  charged 
with  a  thick,  drizzling  rain,  which  greatly  obscured  the 
beauty  of  the  city.  It  was  not  James  Bethune's  first 
visit,  however,  and  he  was,  besides,  too  much  occupied  in 
thinking  of  how  Adam  Farquhar  would  receive  him  to 
pay  much  heed  to  his  outer  surroundings.  When  he 
reached  Bank  Street  a  great  shyness  took  possession  of 
him,  and  made  him  feel  as  if  he  could  never  venture 
into  the  shop,  a  dingy,  insignificant  little  place  enough, 
although  a  very  considerable  competence  had  been 
amassed  there.  He  stood  at  the  window  for  a  while 
looking  at  the  books,  but  seeing  them  not ;  until,  with 
a  broad  smile  at  his  own  foolishness,  he  summoned  up 
his  courage,  and  boldly  walked  in.  The  gas  was  lighted 
within,  and  shone  on  the  musty  rows  of  books,  and 
illumined,  too,  the  yellow,  shrivelled  face  of  the  little 
antiquated  old  man  behind  the  counter.  He  was 
writing  with  a  very  large  quill  pen  in  a  very  large 
ledger,  but  looked  up  very  briskly  when  the  young  man 
entered,  and  came  forward  with  a  cheerful  smile  on  his 
face. 

'  Kather  a  disagreeable  morning,  sir,  but  we  must  look 
for  this  sort  of  thing  in  its  season.  What  can  I  do  for 
you  ?  I've  just  picked  up  a  very  rare  copy  of  Burns, 
the  original  edition — almost  priceless.  Will  you  look  at 
it,  sir  ? ' 

'Don't  you  know  me,  Mr.  Farquhar?'  asked  James 
Bethune  with  a  smile. 


140  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN". 

'  Know  you  ?  can't  say  I  do,'  said  the  bookseller 
tapping  his  bald  head  with  his  quill.  '  But  let  me  see. 
Yes,  I  do  know  you.  I  remember  your  face  quite  well. 
But  what's  your  name  ? ' 

'  James  Bethune,  sir,  from  Star ;  perhaps  you'll  mind 
me  now  ? ' 

'  Yes,  I  do.  Glad  to  see  you ;  come  in,'  said  the  old 
man,  shaking  his  hand  with  extreme  heartiness.  '  So 
you've  really  looked  me  up  at  last.  And  how  are  all  the 
Star  folk — the  denizens  of  that  celestial  sphere  ?  ha,  ha  ! 
I  must  have  my  little  joke,  you  know.  Ah,  poor  Gilbert ! 
these  were  happy,  days'  I  used  to  spend  with  him,  and 
yet  they  saddened  me  too.  I  never  saw  a  man  with  so 
light  a  hold  on  life,  nor  I  never  knew  of  a  more  touching 
case.  His  life  was  a  kind  of  dedication  to  his  wife's 
memory.  I  never  saw  such  devotion  between  two  ;  but 
she  was  a  very  exceptional  woman.  I've  never  been  in 
the  bonds  myself,  so  I  don't  understand  it,  you  know. 
But  there !  I'm  forgetting  myself  as  usual.  Come  away 
in.  We  can  have  a  nice  long  chat  to-day,  for  there  won't 
be  much  business  doing.' 

So  saying,  the  garrulous  and  kindly  old  man  led  the 
way  past  the  well-lined  book -shelves  into  a  little  inner 
chamber  where  there  was  a  bright  fire  burning,  and  a 
comfortable  arm-chair  on  each  side  of  the  hearth. 

'  Take  off  your  overcoat,  and  your  boots,  too,  if  you 
like,  and  make  yourself  comfortable,'  said  the  old  man. 
'  How's  your  folks  ?  father  well,  eh  ? ' 

'  My  father  has  been  dead  since  the  mouth  of  May, 
Mr.  Farquhar,'  said  James  Bethune  quietly,  but  the 
bookseller  saw  the  firm  under-lip  quiver,  and  knew  he 
had  touched  a  sore  point. 

'  Eh,  you  don't  say  so  ?  well,  well,  lie  was  a  hale, 
hearty  old  man  when  I  saw  him  last ;  but  all  flesh  is 


TRIED.  141 

grass,'  he  said,  pressing  his  finger-tips  together  and 
looking  meditatively  into  the  fire.  '  So  you'll  be  pretty 
much  alone  at  the  Star  now.  Your  brother  has  scored 
a  success  in  life,  if  I  may  so  put  it.  He  is  very 
acceptable  to  his  people,  I  am  told.' 

'  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,'  said  Jamie  sincerely,  and  there 
was  a  moment's  silence. 

'And  are  you  taking  a  little  holiday  to  yourself?' 
asked  the  old  man  at  length.  '  Now  that  I  get  a  better 
look  at  you,  I  see  how  much  you  seem  to  need  it. 
Why,  man,  you  look  quite  old.  What  is  your  age,  if  I 
may  be  so  bold  as  to  ask  ? ' 

'I  was  five -and -twenty  on  the  eighteenth  of  last 
June,  Mr.  Farquhar,  but  I  feel  a  bit  older  than 
that.' 

'  Ay,  you  were  always  of  a  serious,  advanced  turn ; 
my  cousin  always  said  so.  Well,  are  you  going  to 
make  a  stay  for  a  day  or  two  ?  I'll  be  glad  to  keep 
you  if  you  like.  I  live  across  the  Meadows,  and 
my  housekeeper,  honest  woman,  will  make  you  very 
comfortable.' 

'Thank  you  very  kindly,  Mr.  Farquhar,  but  I'm 
not  for  staying  the  day.  I've  made  bold  to  come 
and  ask  your  advice  about  something  I'm  thinking  of 
doing.' 

The  bookseller  pricked  up  his  ears,  and  an  interested, 
pleased  look  came  upon  his  face. 

'Well,  I'm  sure  I'll  be  glad  to  listen  and  to  help 
you  too  if  I  can  ;  my  cousin  did  think  a  lot  of  you, 
and  so  do  I  for  that  matter.  But  there,  what  were  you 
going  to  say  ? ' 

'  I'm  thinking  of  leaving  the  Star,  Mr.  Farquhar,  and 
coming  to  push  my  way  in  the  town.  Had  my  father 
lived,!  should  not  have  been  here  to-day,  but  now  that 


142  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

he  is  away  there's  no  duty  to  keep  me  from  trying  to 
better  myself.' 

The  bookseller  nodded. 

'It's  all  right.  /  understand  all  about  it.  Young 
ardent  spirit,  adverse  circumstances,  hopes,  aims,  ambi- 
tions, opportunity  come  at  last.  Glad  of  it.  Well, 
what  are  you  going  to  do  ? ' 

During  these  disjointed  remarks  Adam  Farquhar  did 
not  look  at  his  visitor's  face,  but  kept  his  eyes  steadily 
on  the  fire,  and  rubbed  his  hands  together,  nodding  all 
the  while.  He  was  deeply  interested,  and  much  pleased 
at  the  confidence  reposed  in  him.  He  was  one  of  these 
rare  souls,  which  would  never  grow  too  old  to  share 
the  joys  and  hopes  and  aspirations  of  youth.  James 
Bethune  had  wisely  chosen  his  friend  and  counsellor  at 
this  important  crisis  in  his  life. 

'It's  a  newspaper  office  I  would  like  to  get  into, 
Mr.  Farquhar,'  said  James  Bethune,  sitting  forward  and 
fixing  his  deep,  earnest  eyes  on  the  old  man's  face. 
'  But  I  hardly  know  how  to  set  about  it.  It's  not  easy, 
I  am  told,  to  get  into  such  places.' 

'  No,  my  lad,  it's  not  easy ;  and,  if  you'll  excuse  me 
saying  it,  it'll  be  doubly  difficult  for  you.  You  see, 
you  are  pretty  old  to  begin  with,  and  you've  had  no 
experience  of  anything  in  that  line.  You  see,  one  needs 
to  be  apprenticed  in  these  kinds  of  places  from  boyhood. 
But  now,  tell  me  frankly  what  you  expect  to  do  after 
you  are  in,  suppose  you  should  be  so  fortunate.' 

'  Well,  I  thought  I  might  get  a  place  as  a  reporter  at 
first.  I've  learned  shorthand,  and  I  know  it  pretty 
well,  and  I  can  put  a  thing  together  pretty  fairly,'  said 
James  Bethune  with  slightly  flushing  cheek,  for  it  was 
difficult  for  him  to  speak  of  his  own  capabilities.  '  And 
From  that  I  might  rise  by  degrees,'  he  added  with 


TEIED.  143 

kindling  eye.  'If  they  saw  I  could  do  my  work  well, 
they  might  advance  me  a  little.  I  believe  I  could  write, 
Mr.  Farquhar.' 

'  Well,  we'll  see,'  said  Mr.  Farquhar,  rubbing  his  hands 
more  slowly  and  thoughtfully  together.  '  You  see,  the 
thing  is  this.  Everything  is  overrun  now-a-days.  Why, 
the  way  the  book  business  even  is  cut  up  is  really  heart- 
rending ;  indeed  it  is.  If  I  hadn't  turned  my  penny 
years  ago,  when  times  were  better,  it's  not  now  that  I'd 
make  anything  to  keep  me  in  my  old  age.  But  that 
isn't  much  to  the  point.  You're  a  thoughtful  lad,  aid 
you  should  be  able  to  see  for  yourself  that  it's  only  the 
best  that  can  come  to  the  front.  There's  no  room,  as  it 
were,  for  mediocrity,  especially  in  the  literary  business, 
which  is  just  a  business  like  anything  else,  though 
higher,  of  course.  Do  you  think  you  have  that  in  you 
which  will  force  you  to  the  front,  eh?' 

'  I  don't  know,  Mr.  Farquhar,'  said  James  Bethune, 
rising,  and  beginning  to  pace  up  and  down  the  narrow 
room.  '  I  cannot  understand  myself.  I  seem  to  be 
aye  struggling,  struggling  after  I  hardly  know  what. 
Thoughts  come  to  me  which  I  think  sometimes  are  worth 
writing  down,  and  then  I  feel  as  if  I  had  a  lifework 
somewhere  to  do,  and  must  go  in  search  of  it.  But  I  do 
not  know  how  or  where  to  begin.  It  is  very  hard  to 
find  the  right  way.  I  get  desponding  over  it  whiles, 
too,  and  think  that  life  must  just  be  one  long  struggle 
after  what  we  can  never  attain/ 

'  So  it  is,  my  boy,  so  it  is,  to  such  spirits  as  yours,' 
said  the  old  man ;  and  he  shook  his  head  as  he  looked 
on  the  flushed  face,  the  glowing  eye,  and  ill-suppressed 
excitement  in  the  young  man's  every  movement. 

'  What  does  your  brother  advise  ? '  he  asked  presently, 
and  in  an  instant  James  Bethune's  whole  manner  changed. 


144  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

It  was  as  if  some  chill  shadow  had  suddenly  fallen  darkly 
across  his  heart. 

'  My  brother  and  I  are  not  at  one  about  it,  Mr.  Far- 
quhar.  He  thinks  I  am  a  mad  dreamer,  and  he  has 
cast  me  off.  I  shall  never  speak  to  him  about  myself 
any  more.' 

'  Well,  well,  often  our  own  folk  understand  us  least ; 
familiarity,  as  it  were,  blinds  them.  Don't  be  downcast 
about  that,'  said  the  old  man  cheerily.  '  If  you  succeed, 
he'll  be  the  very  first  one  to  say  you've  done  well.  I've 
seen  the  same  thing  hundreds  of  times  in  my  life.  Ay, 
ay,  there's  nothing  succeeds  like  success,  but  in  the 
meantime  it's  to  get  a  beginning  for  you.  Are  you  ready 
to  come  to  Edinburgh  just  now  ?' 

'  Yes,  I'm  all  ready.' 

'  Then  suppose  you  come  here  to  me  for  a  little.  I've 
nobody  in  the  shop,  and  you  could  help  me  with  cata- 
loguing and  all  sorts  of  things ;  of  course  I'll  pay  you  a 
wage  for  your  work,  which  won't  oppress  you.  You'll 
have  plenty  leisure  for  study  and  self  -  improvement. 
Then  we  can  keep  our  eyes  open,  and  be  ready  to  grasp 
the  very  first  chance.  Would  that  do,  eh  ? ' 

'  It  would  do  very  well,  Mr.  Farquhar ;  but  I  didn't 
mean  anything  like  this  when  I  came  to  see  you.  I 
never  thought  of  your  helping  me  in  that  way,'  said 
Jamie,  almost  in  distress.  '  I  could  never  think  of  being 
a  burden  on  you.  I'll  come  and  be  in  your  shop,  and 
help  you  as  much  as  I  can,  but  I  won't  take  a  halfpenny 
from  you.  I  don't  need  it.  I  am  well  provided  for,  Mr. 
Farquhar,  and  the  land  brings  something  every  year,  you 
know.  So  if  you'll  let  me  come  on  these  terms,  I'll  be 
glad  and  grateful,  sir.' 

'Well,  well,  I  admire  an  independent  spirit  when  I 
see  it ;  so  we  won't  say  anything  about  terms  just  now,' 


TRIED.  145 

said  the  old  man,  laughing.  '  You'll  go  into  lodgings  of 
course.  I  know  of  a  very  decent  widow  woman  across 
the  street  there  who  could  give  you  a  very  comfortable 
room.  I  know  she  has  been  looking  out  for  a  lodger, 
but  that  is  overrun  like  all  the  rest.  It  will  be  fine  and 
near  the  shop,  and  central  for  everything  else,  and  I 
can  thoroughly  recommend  her,  as  she  has  cleaned  my 
shop  for  the  last  five  years.' 

'  Very  well,  sir,  that'll  do  fine,  and  I'll  come  as  soon 
as  I  can,'  said  James  Bethune,  with  a  joyousness  of  look 
and  manner  which  made  him  look  years  younger.  The 
old  man  could  not  but  observe  the  change  in  him,  but 
he  had  no  idea  of  the  deep,  hopeful  satisfaction  in  his 
heart.  He  felt  indeed  as  if  he  had  got  his  foot  on  the  first 
step  of  the  ladder,  and  that  his  ascent,  though  it  might 
be  slow,  was  assured. 

'  Some  of  my  best  customers  won't  be  back  to  town 
till  the  end  of  the  month ;  and,  who  knows,  one  or  other 
of  them  may  know  of  some  opening.  We'll  keep  our 
eyes  open ;  and  the  most  of  them  would  put  themselves 
about  to  oblige  me.  You  see,  I  do  the  right  thing  by 
them,  for  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  there's  no  class  of 
people  more  imposed  on  in  this  wicked  world  than  the 
book  hunters,'  said  Adam  Farquhar.  '  Perhaps  you  may 
have  to  take  something  very  small — menial  even — at 
first,  but  I  don't  think  you'll  mind  that.' 

'  No,  indeed.  I  don't  mind  how  hard  I  have  to  work 
at  first,  if  only  I  could  get  a  beginning,'  said  James 
Bethune  with  great  earnestness.  '  I  don't  know  what 
to  say  to  you,  Mr.  Farquhar,  for  your  great  kindness  to 
one  you  know  so  little  about.' 

'  Tut,  tut,  man,'  said  the  bookseller  hastily.  '  Not  a 
word.  Some  day,  maybe,  I'll  reckon  it  a  great  honour 
and  pleasure  to  be  able  to  look  back  upon  this  day. 

13 


146  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

I'm  doing  nothing  to  deserve  thanks.  I'm  not  a  very 
religious  man, — that,  is  I  can't  talk  much  about  it, — but 
I  count  it  a  duty  and  privilege  to  help  any  struggling  in 
life.  I  was  once  a  poor  boy  myself,  and,  bless  you !  I've 
nothing  else  to  occupy  me.' 

So  a  kindly,  helpful  word  once  more  smoothed  the 
way  for  James  Bethune,  and  he  returned  to  his  home 
in  the  afternoon  with  a  hopeful  and  happy  heart.  He 
found  Aunt  Susan  ready  as  ever  to  rejoice  with  him,  and 
she  urged  him  to  lose  no  time,  although  she  knew  right 
well  what  a  blank  there  would  be  in  the  little  house 
after  he  was  gone. 

A  week  later  James  Bethune  bade  farewell  to  the 
Star,  not  without  deep  regret,  nay,  keenest  pain,  for  it 
was  his  home,  and  many  memories  would  hallow  it  to 
him  for  ever.  Aunt  Susan  bade  him  farewell  bravely, 
without  a  tear ;  but  after  he  was  gone,  and  the  door  shut 
upon  her,  she  tottered  to  her  chair,  and  shook  like  an 
aspen  leaf.  She  had  given  him  up  to  that  great  un- 
known world,  and  felt  just  as  a  mother  might,  who 
has  watched  her  boy  go  forth  to  battle,  scarcely  hoping 
or  expecting  to  see  him  in  life  again. 

He  found  his  lodging  ready  for  him,  a  comfortable 
place  enough,  in  which  he  thought  he  could  make  him- 
self at  home.  And  then  he  unpacked  his  books,  and 
laid  his  clothes  in  the  drawers,  wondering  at  himself  all 
the  while ;  it  seemed  so  like  a  dream.  Then  began  a 
strange  new  life,  almost  like  a  dream  too  in  its  complete 
contrast  to  the  old. 

By  eight  o'clock  every  morning  he  was  in  the  little 
shop,  busy  among  the  dusty  old  books,  which  were  a  very 
dear  part  of  Adam  Farquhar's  life ;  and  the  old  man 
found  him  a  willing  and  capable  assistant.  Never  had 
the  shop  been  so  thoroughly  overhauled  and  put  in  such 


TRIED.  147 

perfect  order.  Dust  became  a  thing  unknown,  and  the 
place  assumed  a  trim  and  bright  appearance  it  had  not 
worn  for  many  years.  But,  though  James  Bethuue 
thus  conscientiously  and  willingly  made  himself  useful 
to  his  kind  friend,  his  heart  was  not  greatly  in  his 
occupation.  He  could  not  understand  the  old  man's 
bibliomania,  and  the  longing  for  a  wider  sphere  still 
pursued  and  tormented  him  as  of  yore.  It  was  the 
world  of  men  and  things  he  wanted  to  study  now ;  he 
had  dwelt  long  enough  among  written  lives  and  dumb 
companions. 

His  evenings  were  entirely  his  own,  and  he  availed 
himself  to  the  full  of  the  many  intellectual  advantages 
the  city  offered  ;  and  so  his  mind  expanded,  and  the 
confidence  of  knowledge  grew  upon  him,  until  in  a  half- 
trembling  way  he  began  to  use  his  pen ;  to  give  a  voice 
to  the  thoughts  which  thronged  upon  him  like  the  waves 
of  a  great  sea.  He  was  not  unhappy  ;  but  his  life  was 
narrow  and  confined,  utterly  devoid  of  any  sweetening 
influence  whatsoever,  and  possessing  nothing  to  draw 
him  away  from  self.  So  a  great  shyness  and  constraint 
hedged  him  in,  and  he  became  so  silent  and  self-con- 
tained, that  Adam  Farquhar  wondered  sometimes 
whether  he  were  unhappy,  and  rued  the  step  he  had 
taken.  From  the  first  time  of  his  coming  to  Edinburgh, 
he  became  a  regular  attender  of  St.  Giles,  and  never  did 
scholar  sit  more  humbly  at  the  feet  of  a  master  than  did 
he  at  the  feet  of  the  cultured  and  eloquent  preacher  who 
so  faithfully  broke  the  bread  of  life  within  its  ancient 
walls. 

The  Sabbath  mornings  were  gleams  of  brightest  sun- 
shine to  James  Bethune,  and  it  was  under  the  pillars  of 
St.  Giles  that  he  felt  more  happy  and  content  than 
anywhere  else.  It  was  a  relief  to  him  to  get  rid  for  a 


148  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

little  of  all  the  perplexing  and  engrossing  interests  of  the 
week,  and  give  himself  up  to  the  sweet,  holy  influences 
of  the  hour  and  the  place.  He  loved  and  reverenced 
Dr.  Kinross  long  before  the  Doctor  knew  of  his  exist- 
ence ;  but  at  length  he  began  to  take  note  of  the 
pale,  earnest-eyed,  solitary  being  who  was  never  absent 
from  his  place,  and  who  hung  upon  his  words  with 
such  breathless  and  deep  attention.  But  it  was  some 
time  before  he  succeeded  in  discovering  his  name  and 
place  of  abode. 

Immediately  after  his  early  dinner  on  the  Sabbath 
day,  James  Bethune  took  his  solitary  walk  into  the 
country,  returning  sometimes  long  after  the  early 
darkness  had  fallen  upon  the  city.  The  Pentland 
Hills  was  his  favourite  resort ;  he  found  a  deep  delight 
and  companionship  in  the  stillness  and  solitude  which 
seemed  to  refresh  and  invigorate  him.  There  the  air 
was  pure  and  sweet;  he  loved  to  inhale  it,  for  he 
often  felt  depressed  and  out  of  sorts  with  the  close- 
ness of  the  atmosphere  in  which  the  greater  part  of  his 
time  was  spent.  Often  as  he  walked  his  eyes  would 
turn  with  deep  longing  across  the  grey  waters  of  the 
Forth,  to  where  the  little  hamlet  on  the  edge  of  the  moss 
lay  under  the  shadow  of  the  Lomond  Hills.  Sometimes 
he  felt  that  he  had  made  a  mistake  in  leaving  it,  and 
could  almost  have  resolved  to  go  back  to  the  old  ways 
and  the  old  folk  who  had  long  loved  him.  For  he 
was  terribly  alone  in  the  wide  and  busy  city ;  the  human 
soul  cannot  brook  such  desolation,  and  will  not  be  stilled 
in  its  yearning  for  human  sympathy  and  love.  It  was 
nearing  Christmas,  and  he  had  never  heard  a  word  from 
or  of  Sandy,  who  had  evidently  cast  him  off  for  ever. 
Aunt  Susan  remembered  him  every  week  in  the  letter 
which  Mary  Campbell  wrote  for  her  every  Thursday 


TRIED.  149 

night.  In  other  ways,  too,  she  gave  evidence  of  her  love 
and  care,  for  many  a  basket  of  good  things  found  their 
way  from  the  Star  to  the  little  dingy  room  in  the  Old 
Town.  But  for  these  little  things,  James  Bethune  had 
hardly  been  able  to  bear  up  against  the  monotony  and 
loveless  solitude  of  these  first  months  in  Edinburgh. 
He  felt  as  if  he  were  making  no  progress  whatsoever, 
and  that  any  action  would  be  preferable  to  the  enforced 
idleness  of  his  days.  Adam  Farquhar's  customers  did 
not  seem  to  be  able  to  help  in  any  way,  for,  though  the 
few  he  appealed  to  on  Jamie's  behalf  were  willing 
enough,  they  had  not  the  power  to  get  an  opening  for 
him.  And  so  the  dreary,  uneventful  days  went  by. 
New  Year  came  and  went,  and  still  there  was  no  change. 
One  mild,  soft  January  evening,  when  he  returned  after 
dark  from  his  usual  Sabbath  walk,  his  landlady  opened 
the  door  to  him  with  visible  excitement  in  her  manner 
and  appearance. 

'  A  gentleman  called  upon  ye  sin'  ye  gaed  oot,'  said 
she,  following  him  into  his  room.  '  Wha  d'ye  think,  but 
Dr.  Kinross  of  St.  Giles  himsel'  ?  An'  he  was  rale 
disappinted  like  that  ye  wasna  in,  and  bade  me  tell  ye, 
gin  ye  wasna  ower  late  o'  bein'  back,  to  gang  ower  to  his 
hoose  in  George  Square  an'  see  him.' 

'  Dr.  Kinross  ! '  exclaimed  Jamie.  '  I  wonder  how  he 
found  me  out  ? ' 

'  Trust  him  ;  he'll  find  a'body  oot  if  he  wants  to.  Yell 
gang,  wull  ye  no'  ?  He  was  fell  anxious  like  that  ye 
should.' 

James  Bethune  hesitated  only  a  moment.  The  little 
dingy  room  did  not  look  particularly  inviting  at  that 
moment,  he  felt  no  desire  to  read,  and  he  had  been  so 
dull  and  miserable  all  day  that  anything  in  the  way  of 
a  change  was  welcome.  He  forgot  his  shyness,  Ilia 


150  TEE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

shrinking  from  strangers,  and,  turning  about,  he  went 
down  the  stair  and  out  once  more  into  the  busy  streets. 
There  was  a  gathering  in  front  of  St.  Giles,  listening  to 
the  fervent  exhortations  of  a  street  preacher.  When 
first  he  came  to  Edinburgh,  Jamie  had  been  both 
astonished  and  interested  in  these  street  preachings, 
but  now  he  never  paid  any  attention  to  them,  but 
walked  on  his  way  as  absorbed  and  unheeding  as 
if  he  had  been  wandering  across  the  ridges  of  the 
Star  Moss. 

How  soothing  and  grateful  the  quiet  of  the  pleasant 
place  where  the  minister  dwelt !  He  could  hear  the  echo 
of  his  own  footsteps  on  the  pavement,  and  the  tree-tops 
in  the  gardens  rustled  with  a  solemn  and  familiar  sound 
which  reminded  him  of  home.  His  heart  was  sore  and 
empty  somehow ;  all  day  he  had  felt  as  if  there  was  not 
much  good  in  anything,  and  had  almost  been  convinced 
that  life  was  scarcely  worth  living  at  all.  Before  he  had 
time  to  think,  he  had  rung  the  bell  at  the  minister's 
door,  and  it  was  answered  immediately  by  a  maid,  who 
ushered  him  straight  into  the  study,  as  if  she  knew  who 
he  was,  and  had  been  fully  expecting  him.  There  was 
no  one  in  the  room,  but  the  easy-chair  drawn  up  to  the 
fire,  and  the  open  Bible  on  the  table,  indicated  that  it 
had  not  been  long  unoccupied.  He  was  standing  rather 
awkwardly  by  the  table  when  the  door  opened  and  the 
Doctor  entered.  How  reverend  and  noble  he  looked  ! 
Never  had  his  fine  presence  seemed  so  striking  or  his 
face  so  winning  and  attractive.  That  rare,  kindly  smile 
won  every  heart. 

'  I  am  glad  you  have  come.  We  have  known  each 
other  a  long  time,  I  think,'  he  said,  as  they  shook  hands. 
'  Come,  sit  down.  As  we  are  friends,  we  must  proceed 
to  learn  a  little  more  about  one  another.' 


TRIED.  151 

In  a  moment  James  Bethune's  awkwardness  and  shy- 
ness was  gone ;  melted  away  for  ever  in  the  radiance  of 
that  kindly  smile.  They  sat  down  together  near  to  the 
fire,  and  ere  many  minutes  the  lonely  heart  was  un- 
burdened, all  its  secret  care  poured  into  a  sympathizing 
and  understanding  ear.  Dr.  Kinross  possessed  that  rare 
gift,  so  invaluable  to  a  minister,  of  being  at  once  able 
to  touch  the  heart  and  command  the  confidence  of  those 
with  whom  he  came  in  contact. 

'  Now  that  we  have  had  a  talk,  suppose  we  go  and  see 
Mrs.  Kinross  and  my  girls,'  said  the  minister,  rising  at 
length.  '  Nay,  you  must  not  refuse.  You  will  like  my 
wife,  and  there  is  a  small  maiden  of  the  name  of  Minnie 
who  will  soon  pull  you  out.  Her  sister  Dora  is  quieter, 
as  is  to  be  expected  of  a  young  lady.  I  have  only  the 
two,  and  they  are  dear,  good  children,  and  a  great  blessing 
to  their  father  and  mother.' 

'  But  I  am  not  fit  for  ladies'  society,  sir/  said  James 
Bethune  with  en  anxious  smile.  '  I  have  never  met  any 
ladies.  How  can  I  talk  to  them  ? ' 

'  Oh,  don't  fear !  they'll  talk  to  you,'  said  the  Doctor 
with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye,  and  led  the  way  up  the  wide 
staircase  to  the  drawing-room  door.  It  was  a  little 
ajar,  and  the  Doctor,  with  a  smile,  motioned  his  com- 
panion to  look  in  before  they  entered.  It  was  a  pretty 
picture,  the  long,  low  room,  lit  by  the  bright  red  glow  of 
the  firelight,  which  lent  a  deeper  tint  to  the  warm 
crimson  of  the  carpet  and  the  rich  hangings  at  the 
opposite  window.  In  a  low  chair  by  the  hearth  sat 
a  lady  of  delicate  and  fragile  appearance,  with  a  face 
so  sweet  and  beautiful,  that  James  Bethune  thought  it 
like  the  face  of  a  saint.  It  was  the  face  of  a  woman 
who  had  known  sorrow,  and  whose  heart  was  a  well- 
spring  of  love  and  sympathy  for  all  humanity.  Her 


152  THE  GATES  OF  EDEX. 

hands — very  white  and  fragile  hands  they  were — lay 
lightly  across  each  other  on  her  lap,  and  she  was 
listening  while  her  daughter  read  aloud  from  a  ponderous 
volume  on  her  knee.  Dora  Kinross  was  a  tall,  pale, 
self-possessed  young  lady,  very  gentle  and  ladylike  in 
all  her  movements,  a  very  different  being  from  the  blue- 
eyed,  golden-haired  little  maiden  sitting  on  the  rug  at 
her  mother's  knee. 

'  All  in  darkness  yet,  dears  ? '  said  the  Doctor's  sonorous 
voice  in  the  doorway.  '  Jump,  Minnie,  and  light  the 
candles.  Mamma,  here  is  our  friend  of  whom  we  were 
speaking  to-day.' 

In  a  moment  Minnie  was  on  her  feet  scrambling  for 
the  match-case  on  the  mantelshelf,  while  Mrs.  Kinross, 
rising,  took  a  step  across  the  room,  and  held  out  her 
hand. 

'  How  do  you  do  ?  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,'  she 
said,  and  she  spoke  as  if  she  meant  it,  and  her  hand- 
clasp was  hearty  and  sincere. 

'  Thank  you,  ma'am,'  said  James  Bethune  shyly,  and 
yet  his  earnest  eye  met  her  kind  glance  without  hesi- 
tation, for  its  sweet  motherliness  filled  his  heart  to  the 
brim. 

Then  Dora  came  forward  and  shook  hands  in  her 
demure,  gentle  fashion,  and  Minnie,  having  managed  to 
light  the  candles,  turned  about,  and  with  her  two 
round  blue  eyes  took  a  deliberate  survey  of  the 
stranger. 

'  Oh,  I  know  you ;  you  sit  in  the  corner  behind  the 
middle  pillar  in  church,'  she  said  candidly.  '  I  often 
look  at  you  to  see  if  you  look  away  from  papa  while  he 
is  preaching,  but  you  never  do.' 

'  Ha,  ha  !  that  shows  how  closely  you  attend  upon  your 
father's  ministrations,  pussy-cat,'  said  the  Doctor  with 


TRIED.  153 

his  hearty  laugh.  '  I  believe  you  know  every  face  in 
church,  child.' 

To  his  surprise,  Minnie  had  not  her  usual  ready 
answer  at  hand.  She  had  resumed  her  seat  at  her 
mother's  feet,  and  sat  there  quietly  listening,  while  the 
others  talked,  but  studying  intently  all  the  while  the 
stranger's  face. 

'  Come,  Dora,  let  us  have  "  Lux  Benigna," '  said  the 
Doctor,  at  length  pausing  in  his  walk  and  opening  the 
organ.  '  You  will  like  the  musical  part  of  our  service 
at  St.  Giles,  Mr.  Bethune  ;  I  consider  it  very  fine.' 

'  I  like  it  very  much  now,  sir.  At  first  it  seemed 
strange,  and  I  could  not  join  in  it,  but  I  am  getting 
better  acquainted  with  the  tunes  now.' 

'  So  you  will.  Come  then,  my  dear,'  said  the  Doctor, 
and  in  a  few  seconds  the  sweet  strain  of '  Lux  Benigna,' 
in  which  the  Doctor's  voice  and  his  daughter's  blended 
beautifully,  rang  through  the  room.  When  it  was  over 
they  began  to  sing  another,  and  Mrs.  Kinross  turned 
to  the  young  man  at  her  side,  and  began  to  talk  in  that 
sweet,  motherly  way  which  went  straight  to  the  heart. 
James  Bethune  could  not  but  feel  at  his  ease  with  her  ; 
nay,  it  was  a  joy  and  a  pleasure,  none  the  less  keen 
that  it  was  so  new,  to  feel  himself  of  interest  to  some 
one  in  the  great  city,  which  had  been  so  long  a  barren 
wilderness  to  him.  When  he  took  his  leave  at  length, 
it  was  upon  the  understanding  that  he  must  come  again 
soon,  and  often,  a  promice  he  Lad  been  very  ready  to 
give.  Very  sweet  to  him  was  the  Doctor's  warm  hand- 
clasp and  deep  '  God  bless  you.'  Very  sweet,  too,  was  his 
wife's  smile,  and  gently-expressed  hope  to  see  him  soon 
again.  But  perhaps  sweeter  than  all  was  the  clasp  of 
the  child  Minnie's  two  hands  on  his,  when  she  uplifted 
her  wide  blue  eyes  to  his  face. 


154  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

'Do  come  again  soon,'  she  said  coaxingly,  for  her 
heart  had  warmed  to  him.  '  Come  on  a  day  not 
Sunday,  and  I'll  show  you  the  doll  Uncle  Lorraine 
brought  me  from  Germany  on  my  birthday.  It  has 
a  thing  in  its  back  you  screw,  and  it  walks  across  the 
floor  just  like  I  do,  only  funnier ;  there,  ask  papa  if  ifc 
isn't  true  1 ' 


CHAPTER    XIL 


THE    MANSE    OF    ST.    GILES. 

'Nothing  comes  free  cost  here  ;  Jove  will  not  let 
His  gifts  go  from  him,  if  not  bought  with  sweat.* 

HERRIOK. 

S  was  to  be  expected,  Doctor  Kinross  was 
anxious  to  forward  James  Bethune  in  his 
desires  and  aims,  and  to  procure  for  him 
some  opening  which  would  really  be  a  be- 
ginning to  his  lifework.  But  that  was  no 
easy  task.  In  a  great  city  there  are  few 
unfilled  spaces  ;  it  is  the  sad  truth  that  in  most 
walks  of  life  the  supply  of  labourers  far  exceeds  the 
demand.  He  had  considerable  influence  with  those 
connected  with  che  press,  and  received  promises  from 
several  that  his  protege"  would  be  kept  in  mind.  So 
through  the  spring  months  James  Bethune  plodded  on, 
helping  Adam  Farquhar  in  the  day-time,  and  studying 
or  writing  in  the  evenings.  So  deep  a  hold  had  Doctor 
Kinross  taken  of  his  heart,  that  he  even  brought 
himself  to  show  him  some  of  his  pieces,  both  poetry 
and  prose,  rightly  believing  that  he  would  be  both  a 

155 


156  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

competent  judge   and   a  kindly  though    keen    critic  of 
their  merits.     They  were  not  perfect, — what  early  work 
is  ? — but  they  were  full  of  promise,  and  had  the  true  ring 
about  them.     The  Doctor  saw  at  once,  nor,  indeed,  was 
he  surprised  thereat,  that  the  young  man  had  an  original 
and   cultured    mind,  and   would    never   number  among 
those   scribblers  who  mistake   an  imitative   faculty  for 
literary  genius.     He  strongly  advised  him  to  send  some- 
thing to    Chambers  s  Journal,  and  even   offered  to  take 
it   himself   to  the   editor;   but  James   Bethune  said  he 
would   prefer   to   send   it   from  his  own  obscurity,  and 
allow  what  he  wrote  to  stand   or  fall  by  its  own  merit. 
In  which  decision  he  showed  the  wisdom   and  manliness 
of  his  spirit.     He  was  willing,  nay,  deeply  grateful,  to 
accept  help  and  advice  in  some  things,  but  there  were 
others   upon  which   he   had   his   own    deep   convictions, 
which  nothing  would  set  aside.     It  was  more  to  please 
his  friend  than  of  his  own  will  that  he  complied  with 
his  request,  for  he  had  none  of  a   new  writer's   ardent 
desire  to  rush  into  print,  but  was  rather  held  back  and 
kept   down    by   a   miserable   consciousness   of   his    own 
shortcomings.      His  power  of    expression   was   not    yet 
equal   to  his  high  ideal,  and  he  sometimes  despaired  of 
ever  being  able  to  clothe  his  thoughts  in  suitable  words. 
It  was  a  healthy  and  wholesome  doubt,  of  which  he  was 
yet  to  receive  the  benefit.     He  had  many  long  flights 
of  imagination   in   these    early   struggling  days ;    many 
aspirations  which   it  seemed  impossible  he  should  ever 
reach ;  many  sweet,  great  thoughts  which  could  scarcely 
hope  to  find  any  vent. 

His  soul  was  stirred  within  him  often  by  his  great 
longing  and  desire  to  do  some  worthy  thing  ;  to  be  able 
to  write  something  of  which  not  only  himself,  but  others 
in  the  world,  would  be  the  better.  Such  longings  are 


THE  MANSE  OF  ST.  GILES.  157 

not  to  be  despised  or  scornfully  cast  aside  as  idle 
dreamings ;  it  is  always  a  worthy  and  an  ennobling  thing  to 
look  up.  We  can  never  look  too  high  in  that  good  way  ; 
the  fault  most  common  to  us  being  the  ease  with  which 
we  stoop  to  what  is  lower  than  the  noblest  in  our 
nature.  The  little  prose  sketch — which  was  in  truth  a 
poem  in  its  beautiful  and  simple  wording — was  accepted 
by  the  editor,  and  appeared  in  due  course.  With  his  first 
modest  literary  gains  James  Bethune  bought  a  gift  for 
his  aunt,  and  sent  with  it  the  magazine,  with  a  broad 
red  line  drawn  round  his  own  article,  which  had  no  name 
attached.  He  did  not  send  a  copy,  however,  to  Sandy, 
for  even  yet  he  could  not  forget  the  sting  of  his  quick,  con- 
temptuous words.  He  had  seen  him  in  Edinburgh  once, 
walking  in  the  street  with  another  minister ;  and,  as  he 
had  never  come  near  the  shop  in  Bank  Street,  though  he 
knew  well  enough  from  Aunt  Susan  where  his  brother 
was,  it  was  evident  to  Jamie  that  he  meant  to  sever  all 
connection.  In  his  intercourse  with  Doctor  Kinross, 
James  Bethune  never  mentioned  his  brother's  name,  and 
it  never  occurred  to  the  Doctor  to  associate  the  popular 
young  minister,  whom  he  had  inducted  to  his  charge  at 
Lochbroom,  with  the  struggling  aspirant  for  literary 
fame.  It  was  with  deep,  genuine  interest  the  large- 
hearted  minister  watched  the  growth  and  development  of 
James  Bethune's  powers;  and  he  made  him  truly  and 
heartily  welcome  to  the  manse.  James  Bethune  found  it 
so  pleasant  a  place  that  he  came  sometimes  unasked, 
which  always  pleased  the  Doctor  and  his  wife.  Minnie 
elected  to  make  him  her  especial  friend,  and  in  her  own 
sweet,  childish  way  did  him  boundless  good.  But,  though 
life  was  not  utterly  devoid  of  sweetening  influences,  he 
had  much  to  try  and  discourage  him.  His  spirit  conr 
stantly  chafed,  because  he  was  making  so  little  apparent 


158  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

headway,  and  it  became  impossible  to  him  to  remain  any 
longer  in  Adam  Farquhar's  shop. 

Out  of  his  perplexity  and  anxiety  a  resolve  began  to 
shape  itself,  and  to  demand  fulfilment.  He  applied  for 
every  likely  post  advertised ;  how  often  he  tasted  the 
heart-sickness  of  disappointment  and  hope  deferred  was 
only  once  revealed  to  another,  and  that  was  years  after. 
Doctor  Kinross  was  in  his  study  one  Friday  evening 
early  in  the  month  of  May,  when  the  servant  brought 
James  Bethune's  name,  with  the  request  for  five  minutes' 
conversation. 

'  Come  away,  James  ;  good  evening,'  he  said,  shaking 
hands  with  him  when  he  entered  his  presence.  '  I  don't 
allow  much  disturbance  on  a  Friday  evening,  but  I  was 
thinking  of  you  a  little  ago,  and  I  supposed  you  would 
be  here.  Has  anything  turned  up?' 

'  Something  has  turned  up,  sir  ;  but  whether  anything 
will  come  of  it  is  another  thing,'  answered  James  Bethune 
with  a  slight  smile.  '  Perhaps  you  noticed  an  advertise- 
ment in  Wednesday's  Scotsman  for  a  reporter  for  the 
Glasgow  Journal.  I  applied  for  it  at  once,  and  they  have 
written  back  asking  for  some  reliable  reference.  It  is 
against  me,  you  see,  not  having  had  any  previous  experi- 
ence, but  they  seemed  pleased  with  my  letter.  Will  you 
read  what  they  say,  sir  ? ' 

'  Certainly."  The  Doctor  pushed  back  his  chair,  and 
perused  the  open  letter  handed  to  him. 

'Well,  that  is  good  so  far.  But  do  you  think  this 
kind  of  work  will  suit  you  ?  It  is  awful  drudgery. 
Have  you  any  idea  of  what  a  reporter  for  such  a  paper 
has  to  do  ?  " 

'  Yes,  I  know  all  about  it.  I  don't  expect  I  shall  like 
it  particularly  ;  but  it  isn't  what  we  like,  but  what  we  can 
get  to  do  now,  Doctor  Kinross,'  said  James  Bethune  with 


THE  MANSE  OF  ST.  GILES.  159 

a  slight  bitterness.  '  I  can't  go  on  like  this  much  longer. 
Anything — sweeping  the  streets,  I  think  sometimes,  would 
be  preferable  to  this  stagnation.' 

'  You  are  quite  right.  I  only  said  it  to  try  you,'  said 
the  Doctor  with  his  kindly  smile.  '  Well,  do  you  wish 
me  to  give  you  a  reference  ? ' 

'  If  you  would  be  so  kind,  sir.  I  know  of  no  one 
else.' 

'  I  will  do  so  gladly.  I  wish  I  could  do  more.  If  I 
had  my  way,  James,  there  would  be  few  difficulties  in 
your  way.  I  am  afraid  life  is  going  to  be  a  harder 
struggle  for  you  than  for  most  men  ;  but  you  must  not 
lose  heart.  There  is  One  who  knows  all,  and  who  will 
never  fail.' 

'  Ay,  I  know  ;  but  I  shall  succeed,  Doctor  Kinross.  If 
I  had  not  known  that,  do  you  think  I  could  have 
supported  the  misery  of  the  last  six  months  ?'  said  James 
Bethune  passionately.  'I  know  of  nothing  harder  in  this 
world — and  there  are  many  hard  things  in  it,  sir — than 
to  be  willing  to  work,  and  yet  have  no  opportunity.' 

'  Ay,  there  are  many  hard  things  in  life,  very  many,' 
said  the  Doctor  musingly,  as  he  walked  slowly  to  and 
fro  the  room.  '  Great  are  its  mysteries,  and  the  older 
we  grow  we  feel  less  inclined,  I  think,  to  question  or 
seek  to  unravel  them.  Perhaps  we  grow  tired,  and  are 
too  glad  just  to  leave  it  all  with  Him.  But  well  do  I 
understand  your  struggle.  Take  care,  my  friend,  lest  in 
these  tumults  you  miss  the  way.  There  is  a  verse  of 
one  of  Faber's  hymns  which  is  often  with  me,  and  which 
seems  to  contain  the  sweet  germ  of  the  whole  matter. 
It  is  this — 

'   111  that  He  blesses  is  our  good, 

And  unblessed 'good  is  ill  ; 
And  all  is  right  that  seems  most  wrong 
If  it  be  His  sweet  will." 


160  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

Whatever  may  be  your  lot  in  life,  James,  you  know  that 
we  wish  you  well.' 

'  Yes,  sir ;  but  for  you,  and  for  the  privilege  of  coming 
here,  I  could  not  have  lived  the  past  six  months.' 

'  Ah,  well !  some  day,  looking  back,  you  may  be  able 
to  say  they  were  part  of  that  needed  discipline  which  we 
must  all  undergo  in  some  form,'  said  the  Doctor.  '  I  am 
just  afraid  that  the  poor  drudgery  of  this  reporting  work, 
should  you  succeed  in  being  appointed  to  it,  may  blunt 
your  taste  for  higher  things.  And  yet  I  need  not  fear. 
If  your  ambition  is  indeed  that  divine  spark  of  genius,  it 
will  survive  and  grow  stronger  because  of  adverse  sur- 
roundings. If  not,  well,  perhaps  you  will  be  as  well  to  be  rid 
of  it,  and  devote  yourself  to  the  more  prosaic  work  of  life. 
And  now  I  must  send  you  away.  I  shall  write  that 
letter  at  once,  and  you  will  let  me  hear  the  result  as  soon 
as  you  know  it  yourself  ? ' 

'  Yes,  sir.     Good-night ! ' 

As  the  Doctor  held  the  hand  a  moment  at  parting, 
he  looked  into  the  pale,  earnest  face  with  something  of 
love  and  compassion  in  his  own.  That  look  went  to 
James  Bethtme's  heart,  and  his  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

'  God  bless  you,  my  friend,'  said  the  doctor  huskily. 
'  Such  sharp  stings  are  the  price  which  must  be  paid  for 
the  higher  gifts  ;  but  your  joys,  when  they  come,  will  be 
no  mean  recompense.  Good-night ! ' 

'  Won't  you  come  into  the  drawing-room,  Mr.  Bethune?' 
said  a  coaxing  voice,  and  a  bright  face,  framed  in  gold, 
peeped  over  the  balustrade  as  he  went  out  into  the  hall. 
'Mamma  knows  you  are  here,  and  would  like  you  to  stay 
n  little.  Dora  has  a  lovely  new  song.  Wouldn't  you 
like  to  hear  it  now  ? ' 

'  Not  to-night,  Miss  Minnie,  if  you  please,'  said  James 
"Bethune,  looking  up  at  the  smiling  face.  '  Say  to  Mrs. 


THE  MANSE  OF  ST.  GILES.  161 

Kinross  that  I  am  vexed  and  troubled  about  something, 
and  no  fit  company  for  any  one  to-night.' 

'  Vexed  and  troubled  !  Oh,  I  am  so  sorry  !  Do  tell 
me  about  it ! '  and  in  a  moment  the  slim  figure  was  down- 
stairs, and  two  white  hands  were  clasped  on  his  arm, 
while  the  young  face  looked  up  into  the  grave,  stern  one 
with  real  solicitude. 

'  How  could  I  tell  you,  Miss  Minnie  ?  No  trouble  or 
vexation  should  ever  come  near  one  so  bright  as  you/  he 
said  with  a  strange,  caressing  fondness  in  his  look  and 
tone.  Between  James  Bethune  and  Doctor  Kinross's 
young  daughter  there  existed  a  deep,  warm  affection,  such 
as  is  sometimes  seen  in  a  brother  and  sister  between 
whom  there  is  considerable  disparity  in  years. 

'  Come  now,  don't  say  that.  Papa  calls  me  Pussy- 
cat and  Sunbeam,  and  says  I  will  be  an  ornament  to 
society  some  day,  when  he  wants  to  tease  me  very  badly. 
But  I  am  not  all  nonsense,  please.  Do  tell  me.  I 
can  be  so  sorry  for  any  one  I  love.  Do  you  know  it 
was  me  told  mamma  you  had  come,  and  I've  watched 
on  the  stairs  for  you  all  the  time  you  were  with  papa. 
Is  it  a  very  bad  trouble  ? ' 

'  Not  very,  Miss  Minnie.     It  will  wear  by.' 

' "  Wear  by"?  What  a  nice  expression  !  Nobody  can 
say  things  just  like  you.  So  you  won't  tell  me  ? ' 

'  You  wouldn't  understand.  It  would  only  puzzle 
your  little  head  trying  to  think  it  out.' 

'  Well — oh,  there's  papa !  I  should  be  at  my 
lessons,  you  know.  Yes,  papa,  I'm  at  them,'  she  cried; 
darting  up -stairs  two  steps  at  a  time,  while  a  peal  of 
merry  laughter  sent  its  sweet  echoes  through  the 
house. 

'  You  elf,  I'll  punish  you ! '  said  the  Doctor,  shaking 
his  fist  at  her. 

14 


162  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

She  threw  him  a  kiss  over  the  stairs,  and  ran  off 
singing  to  the  schoolroom. 

'  I  believe  Minnie  knows  by  instinct  when  you  are  in 
the  house/  said  the  Doctor,  smiling.  '  I  forgot  something 
I  intended  to  ask  you,  James.  The  Assembly  opens 
next  Thursday,  and  we  have  a  few  friends  to  dinner 
that  evening.  Will  you  come  along  later,  say  about 
eight  ?  I  should  like  you  to  meet  one  or  two  who  will 
be  there.  Nay,  don't  refuse.  You  know  it  is  imperative 
that  you  should  see  something  of  society.  So  we  will 
expect  you  about  eight.'  And,  without  waiting  for  an 
answer,  the  Doctor  nodded  and  hastily  withdrew  into  the 
study. 

The  next  few  days  were  full  of  deep  anxiety,  not  only 
for  James  Bethune,  but  for  those  who  were  interested 
in '  him.  Adam  Farquhar  especially  could  not  rest  or 
attend  to  his  work,  he  was  so  anxious  that  his  prote'ge' 
should  obtain  the  situation.  Not  that  he  thought  it 
by  any  means  worthy  of  him,  but  he  saw  very  well 
that  the  lad  was  growing  hopeless,  and  feared  lest  he 
should  become  so  thoroughly  disheartened  as  to  throw 
up  his  city  life  altogether.  That,  he  was  sure,  would  be  a 
mistaken  step. 

'  For  who  knows,  my  man  ? '  he  would  say  in  his 
facetious  way.  '  Perhaps  about  the  end  of  the 
twentieth  century  somebody  will  be  selling  rare  copies 
of  Bethune's  works  in  this  very  shop.  Ha,  ha ! 
wouldn't  that  be  a  joke,  if  only  we  could  live  to 
see  it  ? ' 

On  the  opening  night  of  the  Assembly,  James 
Bethune  dressed  himself  in  his  best,  and  went  out  to 
George  Square.  Only  that  day  he  had  heard  definitely 
regarding  the  situation  in  Glasgow,  and  after  a  week's 
delay  he  was  somewhat  surprised  to  receive  notice  of 


THE  MANSE  OF  ST.  GILES.  163 

his  appointment,  coupled  with  the  request  that  he  would 
enter  on  his  duties  at  once  if  possible.  He  was  in  good 
spirits,  for,  though  the  work  might  not  be  such  as  he 
would  have  chosen,  still  it  was  work,  and  might  be  the 
stepping-stone  to  something  higher.  It  is  the  spirit  in 
which  we  accept  our  lot  in  life  which  lowers  or 
ennobles  it ;  in  very  lowly  places  there  are  to  be 
found  examples  of  heroism,  of  noble  self-sacrifice,  which 
make  the  angels  rejoice. 

James  Bethune's  friendly  intercourse  with  Doctor 
Kinross  and  his  family  had  done  him  boundless  good 
in  many  ways.  Perhaps  not  the  least  of  these  was  that 
the  occasional  companionship  of  refined  gentlewomen 
had  taught  him  many  of  these  little  courtesies  of  life 
which  are  not  to  be  despised.  James  Bethune  had 
never  lacked  the  instincts  of  a  gentleman,  and  now 
he  had  acquired  that  ease  of  manner  and  complete 
self-possession  which  had  been  wanting  when  he  first 
came  to  the  town.  When  he  mounted  the  steps  to 
the  minister's  door  that  night,  he  heard  the  sound  of 
singing  come  floating  down  through  the  open  windows 
of  the  drawing  -  room,  which  held  him  for  a  moment 
spellbound.  It  was  a  wondrous  voice,  deep,  rich,  and 
exquisitely  sweet.  He  leaned  up  against  the  pillared 
doorway  and  listened  breathlessly,  but  there  came  to 
him  no  whisper  of  warning ;  he  did  not  dream  that  he 
was  approaching  another  and  a  greater  crisis  in  his  life. 
When  the  singing  ceased  he  rung  the  bell,  and  was 
at  once  admitted.  Just  as  he  hung  up  his  hat,  Minnie 
Kinross,  in  a  white  dress,  with  her  fair  curls  lying  round 
her  like  a  halo,  came  dancing  down  the  wide  staircase, 
her  face  radiant  with  welcome. 

'  Why  are  you  so  late  ?  Do  you  know  it  is  nearly 
nine  ? '  she  said,  folding  her  two  hands  over  his. 


164  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

*  There  are  so  many  nice,  nice  people  here !  I  am  sure 
you  will  like  them.  Come,  and  I  will  take  you  to  the 
drawing-room  under  my  wing.' 

So  saying,  she  slipped  her  hand  through  his  arm, 
and  led  him  away  up-stairs.  The  drawing-room  door 
was  a  little  ajar,  but  just  as  they  reached  the  landing 
Doctor  Kinross  opened  it  and  looked  out. 

'  How  are  you,  James  ?  You  know  we  are  glad  to 
see  you.  I  guessed  what  Minnie  was  after  when  I  heard 
the  bell  ring,  and  saw  her  disappear.' 

'  I  received  a  letter  from  Glasgow  by  the  evening  post, 
sir,  and  I  had  to  answer  it  at  once.  I  am  sorry  if  I  am 
late/  answered  James  Bethune,  and  as  he  spoke  they 
entered  the  room. 

It  was  full  of  people,  and,  without  looking  round, 
James  Bethune  went  straight  to  Mrs.  Kinross's  chair,  and 
sat  down  by  her  side.  She  greeted  him  with  a  warm, 
bright  smile,  and  told  him  in  a  word  how  glad  she 
was  to  see  him.  Minnie,  who  had  followed  him  closely 
across  the  room,  sat  down  on  a  little  stool  at  his  side, 
and  almost  unconsciously  he  laid  his  broad  hand  on 
the  sunny  head  with  a  lingering  and  caressing  touch. 
The  child's^love  for  him  was  a  very  bright  thing  in  James 
Bethune's  life. 

'  Have  you  heard  anything  from  Glasgow  yet  ? '  asked 
Mrs.  Kinross  kindly.  '  The  Doctor  and  I  were  talking 
of  it  this  morning.' 

'  Yes,  ma'am  ;  the  letter  came  this  evening,  and ' — 
He  came  to  an  abrupt  stop,  and  his  listener  looked  at 
him  in  questioning  surprise.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  a 
group  at  the  other  side  of  the  room ;  his  face  wore  an 
expression  of  absolute  surprise. 

'That  is  Mr.  Bethune,  the  minister  of  Lochbroom, 
standing  by  my  niece,'  said  Mrs.  Kinross.  '  You  seem 


THE  MANSE  OF  ST.  GILES.  165 

to  recognise  each  other.  Of  course,  it  is  the  same  name ! 
Can  it  be  possible  that  you  are  related  ? ' 

'  He  is  my  twin  brother,  Mrs.  Kinross,'  said  James 
Bethune  slowly  and  heavily,  for  the  look  in  Sandy's  eyes 
was  not  one  of  welcome,  and  smote  him  chilly  to  the  heart. 

'  Impossible !  How  is  it  we  have  never  heard  you 
speak  of  him  ?  Doctor  Kinross  inducted  him.  You  know 
he  is  a  native  of  the  district,  and  his  brother-in-law, 
Mr.  Lorraine,  is  one  of  the  heritors  of  Lochbroom.' 

James  Bethune  bent  down  his  head  a  moment,  and 
shaded  his  troubled  eyes  with  his  hand.  Mrs.  Kinross 
saw  there  was  something  far  amiss,  and  the  child 
Minnie  looked  at  her  friend  with  all  her  childish  heart 
in  her  eyes.  And  just  then  the  minister  of  Loch- 
broom  crossed  the  room  and  stood  before  them. 

'  I  was  so  astonished  when  I  saw  you  come  into  the 
room,  Jamie,  that  I  could  hardly  believe  the  evidence  of 
my  own  eyes,'  he  said,  speaking  as  if  with  an  effort. 
'  How  are  you  ? ' 

'  I  am  very  well,'  answered  Jamie,  and  they  shook 
hands,  but  not  with  the  warm  grip  of  mutual  satisfac- 
tion and  love. 

'  You  must  have  a  great  deal  to  say  to  each  other,'  said 
Mrs.  Kinross,  rising.  '  Come,  Minnie,  you  must  give  Mr. 
Bethune  some  peace,  you  know.' 

Minnie  rose  obediently,  only  to  retire  to  another 
corner  and  watch  her  friend,  who  she  saw  was  vexed 
and  troubled,  for  love  had  taught  her  to  read  every 
expression  of  his  face.  The  minister  of  Lochbroom 
took  the  chair  Mrs.  Kinross  had  vacated,  and  for  a 
moment  the  twain  sat  in  absolute  silence. 

'  How  did  you  ever  manage  to  get  in  here  ? '  said 
Sandy  at  length,  with  significant  emphasis  on  the  last 
word. 


166  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

'It  is  easily  enough  explained.  I  go  to  St  Giles, 
and  Doctor  Kinross  has  been  very  kind  to  me,  that 
is  all,'  answered  James  almost  coldly,  for  his  brother's 
look  and  tone  were  not  less  bitter  to  him  than  of  yore. 
'  But  if  I  had  known  I  was  to  meet  you  here,  I  would 
not  have  come.  It  is  rather  awkward  for  us  both.' 

'  You  are  right.  But  what  have  you  been  doing  to 
yourself  ?  You  look  quite  different.  I  declare  I 
would  hardly  have  known  you.  But  there,  I  must  go,' 
Sandy  broke  off  suddenly.  '  We  can  have  a  talk  again.' 

So  saying,  he  rapidly  crossed  the  room,  and  James 
Bethune  saw  the  explanation  at  once.  Some  one  was 
going  to  sing,  and  it  seemed  to  be  Sandy's  place  to 
set  the  piano-stool,  and  arrange  the  music  on  the  stand. 
He  could  not  see  the  face  of  the  singer,  but  he 
noted  the  graceful  curves  of  the  slight  figure,  and  the 
wondrous  sheen  of  the  bright  hair  worn  like  a  coronet 
above  her  brow. 

'  Here  I  am  again,  Mr.  Bethune,'  whispered  Minnie 
Kinross  at  his  side.  '  I  may  sit  by  you,  mayn't  I  ? 
You  see  there's  nobody  to  speak  to  me  to-night  except 
you.' 

He  nodded,  and  laid  his  hand  lightly  on  hers,  as  if  to 
enforce  silence,  for  the  singer  had  begun.  As  that  grand 
voice  rose  and  swelled  in  richest  melody  through  the 
room,  James  Bethune  felt  his  heart  first  stirred  and 
touched,  and  then  it  was  as  if  a  strange,  abiding  peace 
stole  upon  him,  making  him  feel  as  if  no  trouble  or  care 
could  come  very  near  him  any  more. 

'Are  you  going  to  cry,  Mr.  Bethune,  you  look  so 
solemn  ? '  whispered  Minnie.  '  Doesn't  Beatrice  sing 
splendidly  ?  She  is  my  cousin,  you  know,  Beatrice 
Lorraine,  and  that  is  Uncle  Lorraine  sitting  beside  the 
ministers  quite  at  the  other  side  of  the  room.' 


THE  MANSE  OF  ST.  GILES.  167 

James  Bethune  started  at  the  name,  and  looked  with 
deeper  interest  towards  the  piano.  The  singer  had 
risen,  and  he  could  see  her  well.  Even  as  he  looked  at 
the  sad,  pale  face,  lit  by  the  soul -speaking  eyes,  there 
came  to  him  no  prevision  of  the  future.  His  chief 
interest  at  that  moment  was  to  see  the  woman  who  had 
eclipsed  Mary  Campbell,  and  whom  his  brother  would 
give  so  much  to  win.  She  was  beautiful,  but  her  face 
was  unutterably  sad.  It  looked  as  if  some  sorrowful 
life -history  had  been  long  written  upon  it;  and  these 
deep  eyes  had  wells  of  suffering  and  pathos  in  their 
depths.  He  saw  Sandy  bend  low  over  her  and  whisper 
something  in  an  impassioned  voice,  but  she  only  smiled 
very  faintly  and  slightly  shook  her  head. 

'  I  do  love  my  Cousin  Beatrice ! '  continued  Minnie 
confidentially ;  '  only  she  is  so  quiet  and  sad.  Of  course 
she  is  very  sorry  about  Willie.  I  never  saw  "Willie, 
but  he  did  something  very  bad,  and  nearly  broke 
poor  Uncle  Lorraine's  heart.  Oh,  here  is  papa  bringing 
Uncle  Lorraine  to  speak  to  you,  so  I'll  run  away.' 

So  saying,  the  light-hearted  child  skipped  away  once 
more ;  and  James  Bethune  rose  as  the  two  gentlemen 
approached  him.  Doctor  Kinross  briefly  introduced 
them,  and  with  a  nod  and  a  smile  returned  to  the 
discussion  of  church  matters  which  the  song  had 
momentarily  interrupted. 

'  I  was  getting  beyond  my  depth  over  yonder,'  said 
Mr.  Lorraine  as  he  sat  down ;  '  I  am  quite  a  novice  in 
the  history  of  the  Established  Church.  And  how  are 
you  liking  your  city  life  ? ' 

His  tone  and  manner  were  so  kind  that  James 
Bethune  for  the  moment  was  taken  by  surprise,  and  did 
not  at  once  reply. 

'  I  see  you  wonder  at  my  question.     Doctor  Kinross 


168  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

has  spoken  to  me  about  you,  and  I  was  anxious  to  have 
a  little  talk  with  you.  You  came  to  town  in  exceptional 
circumstances,  I  understand,'  continued  Mr.  Lorraine  in 
the  same  interested,  kindly  manner.  '  You  must  have 
found  it  a  great  change.' 

'  I  did.     It  has  taught  me  a  good  few  things,  sir.' 

'Ay,  necessarily.  Take  care  lest  it  teach  you  what 
you  may  have  cause  to  regret.  Keep  your  principles 
untarnished,  I  entreat  you.  City  life  has  had  too  many 
victims  already  ;  do  not  add  to  the  number.' 

James  Bethune  could  not  but  look  at  the  man  in 
astonishment,  he  spoke  with  such  impassioned  earnestness; 
but  suddenly  he  remembered  Minnie  Kinross's  confidence 
concerning  her  relatives,  which  gave  him  all  the  explana- 
tion he  required. 

'  I  will  try,  sir/  he  answered  quite  simply  and  earnestly  ; 
and  he  looked  with  something  of  compassion  at  the  sad, 
proud  face,  which  bore  so  evident  an  impress  of  no 
ordinary  sorrow. 

'  You  are  just  beginning  life,  and  if  you  only  remain 
true  to  yourself,  there  is  no  fear  of  you,'  said  Mr. 
Lorraine.  '  You  will  find  it  a  hard  battle,  but  life  at 
the  best  is  that ;  and  you  have  the  look  of  one  who  will 
struggle  manfully,  and  do  your  best  to  make  it  noble  and 
true.  I  wish  you  well.' 

'  I  thank  you,  sir.' 

'  And  if  you  ever  come  to  visit  your  brother  at 
Lochbroom  (I  was  astonished  to  find  our  minister  was 
your  brother),  we  will  be  glad  to  see  you  at  Nethercleugh. 
I  should  like  to  introduce  my  daughter  to  you,  but  I  see 
they  are  asking  her  to  sing  again.  Perhaps  I  shall  have 
an  opportunity  before  the  evening  is  over/ 


CHAPTER    XIIL 


BEATRICE. 

'Hers  is  a  spirit  deep  and  crystal  clear, 
Calmly  beneath  her  earnest  face  it  lies, 
Free  without  boldness,  meek  without  a  fear, 
Quicker  to  look  than  speak  its  sympathies.' 

LOWELL. 

^f  N  a   corner    of  Mrs.  Kinross' s   drawing-room 
sat  the   minister    of    Lochbroom,    somewhat 
gloomily   regarding    his    surroundings.      No 
one  was  paying   any   heed  to  him  at  that 
moment.      In    the    oriel   window   a  clerical 
clique    was     discussing     the     Disestablishment 
Question,   and   the   ladies   had    gathered   about 
Dora's    tea-table    to    talk    over    a    forthcoming    fancy 
fair. 

Beatrice  Lorraine  was  not  among  them,  nor  the  child 
Minnie. 

In    a    far    corner    of    the  room,  half  hidden  by  the 

folding  leaf  of  a  draught -screen,  James    Bethune    and 

Beatrice  Lorraine  were  in  deep  conversation.     That  the 

theme    was    interesting   and     engrossing    to    both    was 

15  m 


170  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

beyond  a  doubt.  Her  beautiful  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
grave,  earnest  face  before  her,  and  her  lips  parted  as  if 
she  hung  in  breathless  attention  upon  his  words.  Close 
beside  his  chair  stood  Minnie  Kinross,  with  her  bare 
round  arm  on  his  shoulder,  her  eyes  fixed  in  childish 
love  and  wonder  on  his  face.  These  things  surprised 
and  annoyed  the  minister  of  Lochbroom ;  and,  unable  to 
bear  his  own  thoughts,  he  rose  at  length  and  joined  the 
group  in  the  window. 

'  Why  didn't  you  tell  us  you  had  a  brother  in  town  ? 
asked  Doctor  Kinross,  turning  to  him.    '  By  the  bye,  have 
you  seen  this  month's  Chambers's?     But  of  course  you 
are  in  the  secret.' 

'  What  secret  ?  I  do  not  understand  you,  Doctor 
Kinross,'  said  the  minister  shortly  and  coldly. 

'  Oh,  nonsense !  Don't  you  know  who  is  the  writer  of 
that  article  on  "  Social  Eelationships  "  in  the  Journal  for 
this  month  ? ' 

'  Indeed,  I  do  not.' 

'  Then  I  have  the  privilege  of  being  able  to  give  you 
a  very  gratifying  surprise.  It  is  from  your  brother's 
pen  ;  and  with  such  rare  promise  we  shall  all  have 
occasion  to  be  very  proud  of  him,  perhaps  at  no  distant 
date.' 

Alexander  Bethune  preserved  a  cold  silence.  The 
Doctor  eyed  him  a  moment  with  his  keen,  deep,  searching 
gaze,  and  then  glanced  involuntarily  across  the  room. 
There  was  little  resemblance  between  the  brothers,  and 
the  casual  observer  would  not  have  hesitated  a  moment 
as  to  which  was  the  more  striking  and  attractive.  The 
minister  of  Lochbroom  was  undoubtedly  a  handsome 
man.  His  features  were  regular  and  refined ;  his  whole 
physique  and  appearance  that  of  a  polished  gentleman. 
His  clerical  attire  became  him  well,  and  seemed  to  show 


BEATRICE.  171 

his  fine  figure  to  the  utmost  advantage.  The  other  had 
a  powerful,  well-knit  frame,  but  it  was  certainly  not 
enhanced  by  his  attire,  which  had  not  been  cut  by  a  city 
tailor.  His  face  had  lost  the  ruddy  country  hue,  and 
his  features  seemed  large  and  prominent,  while  his  thick 
dark  hair  lay  in  careless  masses  on  his  brow,  which  was 
beginning  to  wear  the  lines  of  deep  care  and  thought. 

His  hands  were  large,  and  still  marked  with  the  hue 
and  the  coarseness  of  his  early  toil.  But  as  the  Doctor 
looked,  his  heart  warmed  to  the  one  as  it  had  never 
warmed  to  the  other,  because  he  knew  that  that  plain 
casket  held  a  noble  and  beautiful  soul  The  elder 
brother  was  one  of  those  who  would  dwell  at  ease,  and 
make  life's  pathway  as  gentle  and  sweet  as  possible,  who 
would  step  aside  from  toil  and  unpleasantness,  preferring 
ever  the  path  of  flowers  and  sunshine  to  the  steep  ascent 
among  the  stones  and  briers.  About  the  younger  there 
was  a  suggestion  of  strength  and  manliness  which  would 
have  its  fulfilment  in  a  life  of  self-sacrifice  and  noble 
deeds.  He  was  one  who  would  seek  for  life's  grandest 
meanings,  and,  having  found  them,  would  seek  to  make 
others  partakers  in  his  rich  heritage.  Such  was  the 
resolve  written  on  his  brow,  and  flashing  in  every  glance 
of  his  deep  and  earnest  eyes.  Dr.  Kinross  could  not  but 
wonder  what  was  the  theme  which  so  engrossed  James 
Bethune  and  his  niece,  and  a  rare  tenderness  came  into 
his  face  as  he  watched  the  unutterable  sympathy  plainly 
written  upon  Beatrice's  beautiful  face.  What  were  they 
talking  of  ?  Not  very  much  after  all.  Their  conversa- 
tion had  been  a  little  constrained  and  disjointed  at  first, 
because,  when  Mr.  Lorraine  brought  his  daughter  to  James 
Bethune's  side,  and  left  her  there,  a  great  shyness  and 
reserve  came  upon  him.  He  could  talk  without  restraint 
to  volatile  Minnie,  or  to  the  sweet,  womanly  elder  sister, 


172  TEE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

or  the  gentle  mother,  but  this  beautiful  creature  filled 
him  with  awe  and  reverence,  and  he  felt  himself  robbed 
of  his  usual  self-possession.  She  had  had  a  great  sorrow, 
which  still  overshadowed  her,  and  he  looked  at  her  with 
an  infinitude  of  compassion,  not  the  less  deep  and  sincere 
because  it  was  and  must  be  dumb.  She  was  so  utterly 
unlike  any  woman  he  had  ever  met  before,  and  when 
her  eyes,  like  stars,  looked  into  his,  it  was  as  if  all 
power  of  thought  and  speech  fled  for  ever.  This  strange 
silence  and  reserve,  however,  was  speedily  broken, 
when  she  spoke,  in  that  sweet,  mellow  undertone  we 
look  for  sometimes  in  vain  in  those  who  possess  the 
gift  of  song. 

'  You  have  not  been  very  long  in  Edinburgh.  It  is  a 
beautiful  city,  is  it  not  ?  I  have  seen  none  like  it 
anywhere.' 

'  Have  you  visited  many  cities,  Miss  Lorraine  ? ' 

'  Yes,  my  father  took  me  abroad  two  years  ago,  and 
we  visited  every  capital  in  Europe.' 

'  That  would  be  a  rare  enjoyment  indeed  ! '  exclaimed 
James  Bethune  involuntarily, — 'almost  an  education  in 
itself.' 

'  It  would  be  to  you,  or  to  any  other  whose  mind  and 
heart  were  free  and  open  to  receive  every  impression,' 
she  answered  with  a  somewhat  sad  smile.  '  We  travelled 
under  peculiar  circumstances,  and  a  great  sorrow  made 
all  the  world  look  dark  to  us.  Though  it  had  been  the 
dream  of  my  life  to  travel,  when  the  time  came  it 
surprised  and  grieved  me  to  find  how  little  I  enjoyed  it. 
Pleasure  and  happiness  depend  so  much  more  upon  our 
inner  selves  than  on  any  outward  surroundings  or  influ- 
ences ;  do  you  not  think  so  ? ' 

'  Undoubtedly,  and  life  is  very  much  as  we  make  it 
for  ourselves.  Yet  I  often  wonder  if  it  is  possible  to 


BEATRICE.  173 

reach  that  state  of  which  Paul  speaks  when  he  writes  that 
he  had  learned  to  be  content  in  whatsoever  estate  he 
found  himself.' 

'  There  are  different  kinds  of  contentment,  I  think,' 
said  Beatrice  Lorraine.  '  There  is  the  slothful  content 
of  indolence  and  stagnation ;  then  there  is  that  false 
contentment  which  those  affect  who  profess  to  have  gone 
to  the  very  foundation  of  things,  and  to  find  no  good  in 
anything  ;  then  that  noble  and  true  contentment  to  which 
a  human  soul  can  resign  itself,  even  when  it  sees  that 
duty  forbids  the  exercise  or  fulfilment  of  its  highest 
desires.' 

'That  is  the  true  contentment  indeed,  Miss  Lorraine, 
but  it  is  purchased  sometimes  at  a  fearful  cost.  Duty 
is  often  a  relentless  and  cruel  taskmistress.' 

'  Only  until  the  task  is  learned,'  said  Beatrice  softly, 
and  a  sweet  smile  parted  her  lips  as  sjie  spoke.  '  But 
pardon  me,  I  have  no  right  to  speak  so  to  you  who 
have  suffered  just  there.  It  is  so  easy  for  those  who 
have  not  borne  the  burden  to  wonder  that  others 
should  complain.  I  spoke  without  thinking,  as  I 
too  often  do.' 

'  But  you  are  right.  Let  me  tell  you  a  little  about 
myself,  Miss  Lorraine,'  said  James  Bethune,  for  the  soul 
looking  out  from  these  starry  eyes  was  full  of  that 
sympathy  which  breaks  down  the  barriers  of  reserve  and 
forges  the  first  links  of  all  friendship.  '  When  I  was  a 
boy  at  home,  I  had  many  a  conflict  between  duty  and 
inclination,  which  grew  stronger  and  more  difficult  to 
overcome  as  I  grew  older,  and  the  desire  for  some  wider 
sphere  and  greater  knowledge  increased.  I  did  not 
grudge  my  brother  his  advantages,  but  only  rebelled 
because  I  could  not  share  them.  My  father  had  no 
knowledge  of  these  rebellings,  and  kept  me  closely  at 


174  TEE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

work,  thinking  he  was  doing  best  for  me.  Then  he 
was  growing  old,  and  without  one  son  at  home  would 
have  been  lonely,  so  for  his  sake  I  stayed.' 

'  But  not  without  reward  ;  that  would  come,  did  it  not  ? ' 
asked  Beatrice,  leaning  forward  a  little  in  her  earnest- 
ness. 

'  It  did  in  many  ways,  for  I  became  necessary  to  him 
in  his  old  age ;  and  I  thank  God  now  that  strength  was 
given  me  to  fulfil  my  duty  to  him.  He  knew  nothing  of 
my  struggles.  If  he  had,  he  would  have  been  the  first 
to  bid  me  go.' 

'  Then  he  is  gone  now  ? ' 

'  He  died  last  spring,  just  after  he  visited  Lochbroom. 
I  am  surprised  that  you  did  not  know.' 

'  So  recently  as  that ! '  she  exclaimed  in  surprise. 
'  No,  we  did  not  know  ;  your  brother  is  reserved 
concerning  himself.  I  did  not  know  you  and  he  were 
related  till  an  hour  ago,  when  Minnie  whispered  it  to 
me.  Is  your  mother  alive  ? ' 

'  Oh  no  ;  she  died  when  we  were  born.  Sandy  and  I 
are  twins.  We  have  never  known  a  mother's  love, 
but  since  Dr.  Kinross  has  admitted  me  to  his  home, 
I  have  known  what  it  is  to  long  for  it.  Mrs. 
Kinross  comes  very  near  my  ideal  of  a  saint,  Miss 
Lorraine.' 

'  Yes,  Aunt  Dora  is  very  good,'  said  Beatrice,  and  her 
eyes  filled  with  tears.  '  I  too  am  motherless ;  her 
memory  is  very  shadowy  now,  but  Aunt  Dora  has  filled 
the  blank  in  my  heart.  Human  relationships  are  very 
sweet,  are  they  not  ?  They  give  us  sometimes  foretastes 
of  heaven.' 

'  I  have  only  known  enough  to  long  for  more,'  said 
James  Bethune  involuntarily. 

'  But  you  must  be  a  great  deal  to  your  brother,  and  ha 


BEATRICE.  175 

to  you,'  she  said,  glancing  across  the  room  to  where  he 
stood  moodily  watching  them  both. 

James  Bethune  observed  her  glance,  and  saw  how  her 
eyes  were  quickly  down-dropped,  and  how  the  colour 
heightened  in  her  delicate  cheek,  and  thought  he  could 
read  these  signs  aright.  Sandy  was  to  be  successful  in 
his  wooing,  then,  and  poor  Mary  Campbell  must  just 
try  to  drink  the  waters  of  forgetfulness.  Although  he 
could  not  approve  of  his  brother's  doings,  he  no  longer 
marvelled  that  he  should  have  swerved  from  his  allegiance 
to  his  first  love  for  the  sake  of  Beatrice  Lorraine. 

'We  were  as  boys  all  in  all  to  each  other,'  he  said 
evasively,  for  he  could  not  tell  an  untruth  even  to  spare 
Sandy  in  the  eyes  of  the  woman  he  loved.  '  He  did  not 
approve  of  my  giving  up  the  work  of  the  farm,  and  per- 
haps I  was  a  little  headstrong,  and  we  were  both  hasty. 
But  it  will  all  come  right  by  and  by.' 

'  But  you  do  not  regret  leaving  now  ?  ' 

'No,  although  I  have  had  a  trial  of  enforced  idleness 
which  was  very  hard  to  bear.  I  have  no  time  to  lose, 
for  I  am  no  longer  a  boy.  I  have  been  successful  in 
obtaining  an  opening  in  Glasgow,  and  if  unremitting  toil 
and  fervent  resolve  can  win  for  a  man  any  of  life's 
prizes,  they  shall  be  mine.' 

'  What  is  your  ambition  ? '  she  asked  eagerly.  '  Do 
not  think  me  curious ;  I  am  deeply  interested,  and  I 
have  always  thought  with  reverence  of  those  who  aspire, 
and  set  themselves  to  win  what  is  noble  and  worthy  of 
possessing.' 

'  I  do  not  know  that  I  could  put  it  in  words.  It 
is  many-sided :  only  if  God  has  given  me  the  gift  of 
a  writer,  and  I  sometimes  think  He  has,  I  should  like 
to  use  it  for  good  ;  to  write  what  would  help  others  as 
well  as  myself  in  the  higher  life.' 


176  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

'  With  such  an  ambition  you  must  nnd  will  succeed/ 
said  Beatrice,  and  the  petals  of  the  yellow  rose  at  her 
throat  stirred  with  the  heaving  of  her  breast.  She  was 
deeply  moved,  indeed,  her  nature  was  quick,  ardent,  deeply 
sympathetic,  full  of  great  possibilities  if  only  it  had 
wider  scope.  Life  for  her  had  long  been  narrowed  and 
confined ;  first  by  a  father's  carelessness  and  indifference, 
then  by  his  great  and  absorbing  need  of  all  her  love  and 
care. 

James  Bethune  slightly  shook  his  head,  and  the  light 
in  his  eyes  somewhat  paled. 

'It  is  only  sometimes  that  hope  whispers  of  such 
a  joy.  Oftener  I  am  depressed  by  my  own  weakness, 
and  overwhelmed  by  perplexities  smd  thoughts  which  I 
can  neither  understand  nor  fathom.' 

'  But  these  will  be  swallowed  up  in  the  wisdom  of  ex- 
perience,' she  said  earnestly.  '  There  is  confidence  in 
knowledge,  and  when  you  get  to  the  foundation  of  things 
all  perplexities  will  disappear.' 

'  As  the  waves  and  their  restless  tossings  are 
lost  in  the  calmness  of  the  ocean  depths,'  he  added 
with  a  rare  smile.  '  That  is  a  great  thought,  Miss 
Lorraine,  and  full  of  comfort.  I  shall  remember  it 
all  my  life/ 

'But  there  will  always  be  something — we  must  leave 
something  which  even  knowledge  cannot  explain  away. 
Were  all  life's  mysteries  revealed  here,  what  would 
remain  for  us  to  learn  yonder  ?'  she  said  softly.  '  I  have 
a  vast  pity  for  those  who  have  made  scientific  knowledge 
clear  up  all  heavenly  mysteries ;  for  the  joy  of  trust 
is  denied  them.  In  their  innermost  hearts  I  am  sure 
they  must  often  be  very  miserable/ 

'  Beatrice,  my  dear,  I  am  sorry  to  disturb  you/  said 
the  deep,  rich  voice  of  Doctor  Kinross  behind  them. 


BEATRICE.  177 

'  But  they  are  growing  impatient  to  hear  you  sing  again. 
Will  you  give  us  "  The  Lost  Chord  "  now  ? ' 

'  Yes,  uncle.' 

She  rose  at  once,  smiled,  arid  crossed  the  room. 
James  Bethune,  forgetful  for  a  moment  where  he  was, 
leaned  his  elbows  on  his  knees  and  followed  her  every 
movement  with  his  eyes.  His  heart  was  stirred  within 
him ;  he  could  have  gone  away  out  into  the  stillness  of 
the  night  to  ponder  over  the  revelation  she  had  been  to 
him.  For  it  is  a  great  revelation  to  an  earnest  soul  to 
find  another  as  earnest,  and  to  know  himself  not  alone 
in  his  strivings  after  what  is  great.  But  suddenly  the 
room  filled  with  song  once  more — such  song  as  James 
Bethune  had  never  before  heard,  and  did  not  dream  had 
any  existence  in  the  world.  It  was  the  deepest  yearn- 
ing that  can  enter  a  human  soul  finding  vent  in  fittest 
melody,  and  its  tribute  was  a  deep  and  sacred  silence 
which  seemed  to  fall  on  the  assembled  company  like  a 
benediction.  When  she  ceased  there  was  no  applause, 
for  pleasure,  like  all  other  emotions,  is  deepest  and 
keenest  when  it  finds  no  voice. 

Then  some  one  said  it  would  be  well  to  leave  with 
such  a  softening  memory  of  a  happy  evening,  and  so  the 
guests  began  slowly  to  disperse. 

'  Where  do  you  lodge  ? '  asked  the  minister  of  Loch- 
broom  briefly,  stepping  across  to  his  brother's  side. 

'In  Bank  Street;  will  you  come  and  share  it  with 
me  ?'  asked  Jamie  eagerly,  for  somehow  his  heart  yearned 
over  his  brother ;  he  felt  himself  so  destitute  of  these 
sweet  human  ties  of  which  Beatrice  Lorraine  had 
spoken. 

'  Oh  no ;  I  have  rooms  at  the  Windsor  Hotel.  You 
might  walk  down  with  ine.  We  may  as  well  have  a 
chat  when  we  can.' 


178  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

'  Very  well,'  said  Jamie  quietly ;  but  he  could  scarcely 
help  turning  a  little  away  from  his  brother,  he  spoke  in 
such  a  cold,  commonplace,  distant  way. 

Just  then  Minnie  Kinross  slipped  up  to  his  side,  and 
looked  up  at  him  with  her  innocent,  childish  eyes. 

'  Well,  Miss  Minnie  ? ' 

'You  have  never  told  me  that  story  you  promised, 
and  you  talked  all  the  time  to  Beatrice  and  never  to  me,' 
she  said  reproachfully.  '  Will  you  take  me  up  Arthur's 
Seat  on  Saturday,  Mr.  Bethune  ? ' 

'  Yes ;  and  I'll  tell  you  two  stories  to  make  up,'  he 
said,  smiling  now,  for  the  child's  sunshine  was  irresistible. 

'  You  should  beware  of  what  promises  you  make  to 
Minnie,  Mr.  Bethune,'  said  Miss  Kinross,  laughing.  '  She 
will  plague  your  life  out  now.' 

'  It  will  not  be  for  long,  Miss  Kinross ;  I  leave  Edin- 
burgh next  week.' 

'  Indeed  ?  I  am  very  sorry ;  we  shall  all  miss  you/  said 
Dora  Kinross  with  genuine  regret  in  her  tone.  '  But 
Glasgow  is  not  a  thousand  miles  away;  we  shall  see  you 
often,  I  hope,  else  Minnie  will  be  inconsolable.  We 
shall  miss  you  on  Sabbath  evenings  most  of  all.' 

Dora  Kinross  was  quite  sincere  in  all  she  said,  but 
she  purposely  spoke  with  greater  warmth  because  the 
minister  of  Lochbroom  was  within  hearing.  She  had 
been  puzzled  as  well  as  surprised  that  they  should  never 
have  been  made  aware  of  the  relationship  between  the 
brothers,  but  after  a  little  thought  her  shrewd  per- 
ceptions had  assisted  her  to  a  correct  conclusion,  and  the 
Rev.  Alexander  Bethune  fell  accordingly  in  her  estima- 
tion. It  was  a  harmless  delight  to  her  to  show  him  how 
very  highly  the  brother  whose  existence  he  had  thought 
it  better  to  ignore  was  esteemed  and  honoured  among 
them. 


BEATRICE.  179 

Although  Doctor  Kinross's  drawing-room  held  Beatrice 
Lorraine,  Sandy  Bethune  was  glad  to  leave  it  that 
night.  He  was  neither  happy  nor  comfortable  in 
his  mind. 

At  the  corner  of  Lauriston  those  who  were  walking 
home  separated,  and  the  two  brothers  pursued  their 
way  together  along  George  IV.  Bridge  towards  the 
New  Town.  Jamie  was  determined  not  to  be  the  first 
to  speak ;  unless  in  answer  to  questions,  he  would 
give  no  information  regarding  his  way  of  life  or  future 
prospects. 

'  Well,  how  are  you  getting  on  ?  Well,  I  suppose,  or 
you  wouldn't  be  as  you  are.  I  must  say  you  are 
wonderfully  improved/  said  Sandy  when  they  had  gone 
some  distance  in  silence. 

'  In  what  way  ? ' 

'  In  every  way ;  you  don't  look  so  countrified,  and 
you  speak  much  more  correctly.  But  how  have  you 
managed  to  lay  aside  the  old  Star  dialect  so  quickly  ? 
You  spoke  broadly  enough  the  last  time  I  saw  you ; 
and  now  there  is  only  a  slight  accent  which  betrays 
your  Fife  origin.' 

'  I  could  have  spoken  English  correctly  enough  long 
ago,  if  I  had  seen-  the  need,'  said  Jamie  quietly.  '  I 
like  the  broad  Scotch  best  yet ;  but  it  doesn't  do  for  all 
company.' 

'  I  see.  I  heard  you  say  to  Miss  Kinross  you 
were  going  to  leave  Edinburgh,  Where  are  you 
going  ? ' 

'  To  Glasgow.' 

'What  to  do?' 

'  Work  as  a  reporter.' 

'  Is  that  all  ?  Why,  from  your  airs  one  would  think 
you  were  going  as  editor  of  the  Herald,  or  to  fill  some 


180  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

other  equally  responsible  position.  How  on  earth  have 
you  ever  managed  to  get  so  intimate  at  St.  Giles  ? ' 

'  I  told  you  already,'  answered  James  Bethune  briefly, 
for  Sandy's  sneering  tone  wounded  him  as  of  yore. 

'  So  you  wrote  that  article  in  Chambers  s  ?  They  were 
praising  it  inordinately.  Mr.  Brown  of  Greyfriars  pre- 
dicts for  you  a  grand  career.  Well,  I  never  thought  it 
was  in  you.' 

'  Are  you  sure  of  it  now  ? ' 

Sandy  laughed,  and  swung  his  cane  backwards  and 
forwards  by  his  side.  'Well,  I  suppose  I  must  admit  it 
now.  I'm  sure  I  wish  you  well.  When  did  you  see 
Aunt  Susan  ? ' 

'  A  fortnight  ago,  I  was  over.' 

'Whom  else  did  you  see  in  Star?' 

'  All  the  folk.     They  are  quite  well  at  the  Knowe. 

'  Is  Mary  quite  well  ? ' 

*  She  seems  to  be.' 

'  They  wouldn't  ask  for  me,  I  suppose.' 

'  No,  they  never  mention  your  name.' 

'  I  suppose  they  regard  me  in  a  very  black  light.  What 
do  you  think  of  Miss  Lorraine  ? ' 

'  She  is  very  beautiful.  I  had  no  idea  she  would  be 
such  a  beautiful  woman.' 

'  Don't  you  remember  me  telling  you  that  before  ? ' 

'  Yes,  but  I  allowed  something  for  your  imagination. 
Are  you  engaged  tc  her  ? ' 

'  I  wish  I  was.  I  am  just  where  I  was  when  I  saw 
you  last.  Do  you  know,  I  can  hardly  preach  or  attend 
to  my  work  for  thinking  about  her.' 

'  Then  the  sooner  you  get  the  question  settled  the 
better  for  yourself  and  your  people.' 

'  But,  man,  I'm  afraid  to  venture.  If  I  lose  her  I 
don't  know  what  I  shall  do.' 


BEATRICE.  181 

James  Bethune  could  have  smiled,  even  in  the  middle 
of  his  brother's  impassioned  speaking.  To  hear  the  cool, 
calculating,  confident  Sandy  speak  so  humbly  was  wonder- 
ful indeed,  and  an  abiding  proof  of  the  levelling  power 
of  love. 

'  What  were  you  speaking  about  over  in  yon  corner  ? 
You  seemed  to  be  deeply  engrossed.' 

'  I  could  not  tell  you  all  we  said.  She  is  a  noble, 
good  woman,  Sandy.  If  you  win  her,  I  hope  you  will 
make  her  happy.' 

'  Do  you  think  I  have  any  chance  ?  Did  you  speak 
about  me  at  all  ?  Of  course  she  knows  you  are  my 
brother  now.  I  hope  you  didn't  give  her  all  the 
particulars  of  our-  early  life.  You'll  soon  learn  now, 
Jamie,  that  it  will  be  to  your  advantage  to  bury  it  in 
oblivion.' 

•Why?' 

*  Oh,  because  people  in  good  society  lay  great  stress  on 
a  man's  antecedents.     He  is  seldom  judged  on  his  own 
merits.' 

*  Would  you  call  the  Kinrosses  good  society  ? ' 

'  Certainly.  Doctor  Kinross's  forebears  have  been 
ministers  in  Lockerbie  for  generations,  and  his  brother, 
who  is  minister  there  now,  is  on  intimate  terms  with  all 
the  county  people.' 

'  They  don't  seem  to  me  to  take  up  their  heads  much 
with  folk's  antecedents,  and  I  have  seen  a  good  deal  of 
them.' 

'  Oh,  well,  perhaps  they  are  exceptions,  but  they  don't 
prove  the  rule.  You'll  soon  see  I  am  right.  Well,  here's 
my  hotel.  Are  you  coining  in  ? ' 

'  No,  it  is  after  eleven ;  it  is  time  I  was  away  home. 
I  am  always  in  after  six  in  the  evening,  if  you  care  to 
look  me  up.' 


182  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

*  Well,  if  there's  nothing  of  particular  interest  at  the 
Assembly,  I'll  look  in  to-morrow  evening.  Good-night/ 

'  Good-night.' 

'  I  hope  you  don't  bear  me  any  grudge  for  what  I  said 
last  time  we  met,'  said  Sandy,  the  clasp  of  his  brother's 
hand  touching  a  tender  chord  in  his  heart.  '  I  did  not 
mean  to  hurt  you.' 

'  It  did  hurt  me,  but  I'll  forget  it  now.  I'm  glad  I've 
seen  you  again,  Sandy.  I  have  been  lonely  enough  all 
winter/ 

So  they  parted  with  something  of  the  old  glow  of 
brotherly  affection  in  their  hearts.  Jamie  wended  his 
way  slowly  along  Princes  Street,  which  was  almost 
deserted  now,  save  by  the  waifs  and  wanderers  who 
frequent  the  streets  of  a  city  by  night.  The  soft,  star- 
gemmed  sky  beamed  down  in  benignant  pity  on  these 
poor  wanderers  ;  and  the  pure  radiance  of  the  young 
May  moon  lay  like  a  veil  of  mystery  over  all.  The 
breath  of  summer  was  in  the  mild  and  balmy  air,  and  the 
first  blossoms  of  the  mignonette  sent  up  its  sweet  tribute 
to  the  midnight  air.  James  Bethune  crossed  to  the 
garden  side,  and  walked  slowly  with  his  head  bent, 
taking  no  heed  of  anything  around  him,  for  many 
thoughts  oppressed  him.  He  felt  as  if  every  step  in  life 
brought  him  face  to  face  with  new  mysteries,  with  things 
hard  to  understand  and  harder  to  bear.  That  night  he 
had  obtained  a  glimpse  of  something  which  had  hitherto 
had  no  place  in  his  thoughts.  It  had  dawned  upon  him 
that  there  were  other  things  more  desirable  than  fame  or 
fortune,  things  which  neither  of  these  could  buy.  He 
had  read  much  about  the  influence  of  women  upon  the 
conduct  and  affairs  of  men's  lives ;  how  the  weak  and 
erring  had  been  raised,  and  the  noble  made  nobler  and 
better  by  a  woman's  love.  The  deepest  feelings  of  his 


BEATRICE.  183 

heart  were  stirred,  and  there  came  to  him  in  the  midnight 
stillness  unutterable  yearnings  for  some  sweet  influence 
which  would  satisfy  the  impulses  of  affection,  now  for 
the  first  time  called  into  being.  It  would  be  too  much 
to  say  he  had  learned  to  love  Beatrice  Lorraine  in  the 
brief  hour  of  their  acquaintance,  only  in  her  he  had  met 
the  first  woman  \\'u«  had  the  power  to  interest  him. 
\\  hat  influence  was  she  to  have  upon  his  future  life  ? 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


DESOLATE   AGE. 

My  days  are  in  the  yellow  leaf; 

The  flowers  and  fruits  of  love  are  gone; 
The  worm,  the  canker,  and  the  grief 

Are  mine  alone. 

•  BYRON. 

ILL  ye  come  east,  Miss  Bethune?  The 
maister's  awfu'  no'  weel,  an'  there's  no'  a 
cratur  to  dae  a  hand's  turn  for  him.' 

'  Oh,  it's  you,  Wull/  said  Susan 
Bethune,  peering  out  into  the  darkness, 
and  discerning  the  figure  of  the  foreman  at 
Auchtermairnie  standing  by  a  horse  and  trap 
outside  the  garden  gate.  '  What  way  hae  ye  brocht 
the  beast  ?  Is  he  that  ill  that  I  maun  gang  east  the 
nicht  ? ' 

"Deed  is  he.  He's  been  cornpleenin',  ye  ken,  sin' 
afore  hervest ;  but  it  was  stauniu'  in  the  tattie  dreels 
yesterday  in  the  weet  that  did  for  him.  It  rained  a' 
efternune,  an'  he  was  that  anxious  to  get  them  a'  up  that 
he  wadna  let's  ]owse.' 

184 


DESOLATE  AGE.  135 

'  Harm  tak'  the  body !  he's  wark  daft,'  said  Susan 
Bethune  a  trifle  testily,  for  she  was  by  no  means  inclined 
to  leave  her  own  cosy  fireside  so  late  on  a  raw  November 
night  to  share  the  cold  comfort  of  Auchtermairnie.  '  Is 
he  in  his  bed  ? ' 

'Ay,  noo.  He  had  bit  to  lie  doon,  for  he  couldna 
staund.  He's  a'  pains,  an'  he  has  an'  unco  like  hoast.  I 
doot  he's  by  wi't  this  time.' 

'Aweel,  he's  an  auld  carle  noo,  an*  he  hasna  been 
guidit  since  Marget  dee'd,'  said  Susan  in  a  matter-of-fact 
way.  '  Bide  a  wee  or  I  rake  oot  my  fire  an'  pit  twa- 
three  things  thegither,  for  I'll  likely  hae  to  bide  or  the 
morn,  onyway.  Wull  the  beast  no'  let  ye  in  to  the 
fire  a  wee?  it's  a  cauld  nicht.' 

'  Na,  she'll  no'  staund.  I'll  jist  wait,'  said  the  man ; 
and  Susan  Bethune  with  a  nod  disappeared  indoors.  Still 
active  despite  her  seventy-three  years,  she  made  herself 
ready  in  an  incredibly  short  time,  and,  well  wrapped  up, 
took  her  place  in  the  dilapidated  milk-cart,  which  still 
did  duty  as  a  gig  at  Auchtermairnie.  The  animal,  a 
fresh  young  filly  of  Peter  Bethune's  own  rearing,  rattled 
them  rapidly  over  the  ground,  and  in  less  than  half  an  hour 
they  were  at  Auchtermairnie.  A  feeble  light  nickered 
through  the  dirty  panes  of  the  kitchen  window,  the  only 
sign  of  life  about  the  dreary  house.  Susan  Bethune  got 
out  cautiously,  and,  grasping  her  carpet-bag,  marched 
into  the  house,  sniffing  as  she  went,  for  the  close, 
musty  smell  seemed  to  catch  her  breath  on  the  very 
threshold. 

'  Weel,  I'm  here,  Peter,'  she  said  as  she  entered  the 
kitchen.  Receiving  no  answer,  she  set  down  her  bag 
and  approached  the  bed. 

'  Are  ye  sleepin',  Peter  ? ' 

'  Na ;  I  wish  I  was,'  came  in  a  feeble  voice  from  under 

16 


186  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

the   clothes,  then   a   violent   fit  of  coughing   shook  his 
exhausted  frame,  and  made  him  almost  gasp  for  breath. 

'  Mercy  me,  that's  a  dreidfu'  hoast !  What  d'ye  mean, 
ye  auld  gomeril,  staunin'  in  weet  tattie  dreels  till  ye  get 
yer  death  ?  I'm  sure  ye  hae  plenty  o'  this  warld's  gear 
to  serve  ye  a'  your  time,  noo.  Ye  micht  let  the  thing 
abee.  Is  there  ony  caun'les  in  the  hoose  ? ' 

'  Na ;  but  there's  the  stable  lamp  ahint  the  door ;  but 
if  ye  pit  on  a  bit  stick  it'll  mak'  licht  enough.' 

Susan  Bethune  paid  no  attention  to  his  suggestion, 
but  took  down  the  stable  lamp,  lit  it,  and  brought  it  to 
bear  on  the  sick  man's  face.  She  was  touched  by  his 
haggard  and  miserable  appearance,  but  her  pity  turned 
to  indignation  as  her  eyes  lighted  on  the  grimy  sheets 
and  blankets  which  covered  him.  She  was  a  sworn  foe 
to  dirt  in  every  shape  or  form. 

'Weel,  jist  lie  still  or  I  get  the  kettle  biled,  an'  I'll 
gie  ye  a  warm  drink,  an'  pit  a  poultice  on  for  that  hoast, 
an'  the  time  the  kettle's  bilin'  I'll  get  clean  things  for 
the  bed,  if  there's  sic  a  thing  i'  the  hoose.  The  doctor  11 
be  here  the  morn,  an'  it  wad  be  a  disgrace  if  he  saw  ye 
as  ye  are.' 

*  I'm  no'  needin'  a  doctor,  Shoosan.     It's  only  a  cauld.' 

'Wull  '11  ride  that  young  beast  ower  to  Leslie  first 
thing  i'  the  mornin','  continued  Susan,  just  as  if  she  had 
not  heard  his  feeble  remonstrance.  '  Noo  ye  may  as 
weel  keep  quate,  because  if  I'm  to  be  here  ava',  I'll  dae 
as  I  like.  Eh,  certy,  sic  a  hoose  ! ' 

It  was  no  wonder  that  Susan  Bethune  heaved  a  pro- 
digious sigh  as  she  gazed  round  the  kitchen,  which  was 
wont  to  be  so  clean  and  snug  and  cosy,  both  in  her  own 
and  Marget's  time.  It  was  a  dirty,  dingy,  smoke- 
discoloured  place  now,  with  cobwebs  hanging  here  and 
there  and  everywhere,  and  the  dust  lying  thick  on  every- 


DESOLATE  AGE.  187 

thing  which  was  not  in  daily  use.  Taking  the  lamp  in 
her  hand,  she  went  away  to  the  room  end  to  seek  some 
clean  bed-linen,  and  she  shivered  as  she  entered  the  close, 
damp-smelling  place,  which  was  in  worse  condition  than 
the  other  end.  She  had  difficulty  in  opening  the 
drawers,  as  they  were  swollen  with  the  damp  ;  but  at 
length  she  succeeded,  and,  finding  what  she  sought, 
returned  to  the  kitchen,  and  piled  up  peats  and  coals  on 
the  fire  till  her  brother  turned  uneasily  in  his  bed  and 
asked  why  she  was  so  lavish  with  the  fuel.  But  she 
paid  no  heed  to  him,  only  hung  up  the  sheets  close  to 
the  cheerful,  strong  heat,  and  proceeded  to  prepare  some 
peculiar  kind  of  gruel,  for  which  she  was  famous  in  the 
Star.  It  had  never  been  known  to  fail  to  relieve  cold. 
When  the  wretched  old  man  was  made  warm  and  com- 
fortable, and  had  drank  a  bowl  of  the  gruel,  he  felt 
much  relieved,  and  fell  into  a  sleep,  which  was  only 
disturbed  at  times  by  his  cough.  Susan  Bethune,  after 
considerable  trouble,  managed  to  push  the  old  sofa  from 
the  room  to  the  kitchen,  and,  throwing  off  her  dress, 
wrapped  herself  in  a  warm  shawl  and  lay  down  in  front 
of  the  fire.  But  she  could  not  sleep,  it  was  so  strange 
to  be  once  more  at  the  old  fireside,  and  the  place  seemed 
to  be  peopled  with  memories  and  phantoms  of  the  past. 
They  were  not  all  sad  memories,  and  yet  the  old  stock 
was  getting  far  reduced,  and  the  chances  were  that  very 
soon  there  would  be  another  family  in  Auchtermairnie, 
and  the  name  of  Bethune  would  soon  be  forgotten  in  the 
place.  It  was  a  matter  of  regret  at  times  to  Susan 
Bethune  that  neither  of  her  brother's  sons  had  elected  to 
follow  in  the  way  of  their  forebears,  and  yet  she  knew 
that  they  were  better  to  follow  after  their  own  inclina- 
tions than  to  take  up  an  occupation  for  which  they  had 
no  love.  Then  her  thoughts  centred  upon  her  own  boy, 


188  TEE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

as  she  always  thought  of  Jamie  in  her  heart,  and  she 
gave  herself  up  to  visions  of  his  future,  which  was  to  be 
great  and  grand  far  beyond  her  comprehension ;  for 
there  was  nothing  to  which  Jamie  might  not  aspire  to 
and  attain.  Her  love  and  pride  and  faith  in  him  were 
what  made  life  sweet  to  her  now  ;  indeed,  she  had  nothing 
else  to  live  for.  His  constant  thought  of  and  considera- 
tion for  her  were  also  things  passing  sweet,  for,  though 
he  was  busy  in  his  new  way  of  life,  he  was  never  too 
busy  to  write  his  weekly  letter  on  the  appointed  day, 
and  he  never  forgot  to  send  her  the  earliest  copy  of  any- 
thing of  his  own  which  had  found  its  way  into  print. 
It  would  be  impossible  for  me  to  attempt  to  analyze  or 
describe  the  strange  commingling  of  reverence,  love,  and 
wonder  with  which  the  old  woman  regarded  these 
printed  pieces.  They  were  carefully  read  and  re-read 
by  herself,  lent  for  one  night  to  the  kind,  interested 
friends  at  the  Knowe,  then  wrapped  in  a  silk  handker- 
chief and  laid  beside  the  lavender-scented  linen  in  her 
own  kist.  A  wonderful  place  was  Susan  Bethune's  kist ; 
its  whole  contents,  of  no  mean  value,  were  intended  for 
Jamie's  wife,  should  he  ever  take  one.  She  was  thinking 
of  old  times,  reviewing  her  own  life  and  its  changes  since 
she  had  gone  for  the  second  time  to  make  her  home  in 
the  Star,  when  her  brother  woke  up  and  asked  what 
o'clock  it  was. 

'Near  twal'/  she  answered  without  rising.  'D'ye 
want  onything  ? ' 

'  A  drink  o'  water.  Eh,  wummin,  it's  like  there  was  a 
burnin'  fire  in  me !  There's  something  awf  u'  wrang  ! ' 
he  said  uneasily.  '  Tak'  aff  some  o'  they  sticks  an'  cool 
the  place.' 

'  It's  no'  het  ava,  man ;  it's  you  that's  fevered,'  said 
Susan,  bringing  him  the  water,  which  he  drank  feverishly, 


DESOLATE  AGE.  189 

and  asked  for  more ;  but  she  refused  to  give  it  until  the 
doctor  should  come.  '  1  doot  it's  gatm  to  gang  hard  wi' 
ye  this  time,  Pete ! ' 

'  My  time's  maybe  come ;  an'  yet  I'm  no'  that  auld, 
only  seeventy-seeven.  Marget's  first  man  was  ninety 
when  he  dee'd,  an'  auld  Saunders  Law  in  the  Star  eichty- 
six.' 

'  Ay,  but,  lad,  they  took  care  o'  theirsel's,'  said  Susan 
briefly.  '  Hoo  aften  hae  I  wairned  ye  no'  to  tear  yersel' 
dune  as  ye've  been  daein'  a'  yer  days.' 

'  Weel,  weel,  I  had  to  work  or  the  place  wadna  pay,' 
said  the  old  man,  playing  restlessly  with  the  fringes  of 
the  counterpane.  '  What  aboot  John's  sons  ?  When 
did  ye  see  that  silly  cratur,  Jamie  ?  Is  he  in  the  puirs- 
hoose  yet  ? ' 

'  No,  he's  in  Glesca,  gettin'  twa  pound  a- week  as  a 
reporter,  an'  money  for  ither  things  forby,'  answered  Aunt 
Susan  with  quiet  pride. 

'  Weel,  I'm  sure  he's  no'  worth  it.  It  wad  set  him 
better  to  drive  a  pair  on  Auchtermairnie  yet.  It'll  be 
an  unco -like  thing  when  there's  no'  a  Bethune  in 
Auchtermairnie.' 

'  Ay,  but  we  canna  help  it.  The  laddies  hae  ither 
wark  to  dae,'  said  Susan  with  a  little  sigh. 

'  Weel,  ye'll  write,  or  get  somebody  to  write  to  Sandy 
the  morn.  He'll  better  come  through  an'  see  efter 
things.  The  feck  o't  '11  gang  to  him.' 

'  Is  yer  wull  made,  Peter  ? ' 

'  Oh  ay,  it's  made.' 

'  An'  does  the  minister  get  a'  ? ' 

'  Ay.  I  telt  Jamie  that  unless  he  bade  at  hame 
he  wadna  see  a  hapney  o'  my  siller,  an'  I'll  keep 
my  word.' 

'But  what  aboot  Marget's  laddies?' 


190  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

'  They've  gotten  a'  they're  gaun  to  get/  replied  the  old 
man  with  a  girn.  'They  got  the  Enster  property 
divided  when  Marget  dee'd,  an'  there's  nae  mair  for 
them.' 

'  But  her  dochter,  puir  lassie,  her  that's  a  weedy  at 
Leven — ye  micht  dae  waur  than  leave  her  a  hundred  or 
twa.  Marget  didna  come  to  ye  empty-handit  onyway. 
Ye  got  a  hantle  mair  than  the  Enster  hooses.' 

.'  Maybe ;  but  I  deserved  something  for  takin'  her. 
She  wasna  weel  -  faured,'  said  the  old  man  with  a 
wretched  attempt  at  a  smile.  '  I'm  wearit  noo, 
Shoosan.  Eh,  I  wish  it  was  the  mornin' !  If  ye 
wad  gae  'wa'  an'  no'  speak  sae  muckle  till  a  body,  he 
micht  get  a  sleep.' 

'  Ye're  aye  the  auld  carle  yet,  Pete ;  as  thrawn 
as  a  ravelled  wab,'  she  answered.  *  Noo,  see,  keep 
the  claes  aboot  ye.  If  ye  dinna  dae  as  I  bid  ye, 
I'll  gang  back  tae  the  Star  wi'  the  daylicht,  as  sure's 
I'm  here.' 

So  saying,  Susan  Bethune  turned  down  the  lamp,  and 
laid  herself  down  again  gladly,  for  she  was  missing  her 
accustomed  night's  rest.  For  some  hours  there  was 
silence  in  the  kitchen,  broken  only  by  the  sick  man's 
cough  and  hurried  breathing,  and  the  occasional  falling 
of  the  ashes  from  the  grate  as  the  fire  settled  itself  to 
burn  more  slowly  and  steadily  till  the  morning.  Before 
five  Susan  was  astir  again,  and  by  the  half-hour  the 
foreman  was  speeding  over  the  road  to  Leslie  to  summon 
the  doctor.  The  forenoon  was  well  through,  however, 
before  he  put  in  an  appearance,  and  after  his  brief  ex- 
amination of  the  old  man,  he  had  little  to  say.  Susan 
Bethune,  who  had  met  him  often  by  sick  and  dying  beds, 
knew  his  opinion  by  the  expression  in  his  face  just  as 
well  as  if  he  had  put  it  in  words.  Peter  was  dying. 


DESOLATE  AGE.  191 

She  followed  him  out  to  the  door,  and  stood  in  silence 
while  he  mounted  his  horse. 

'  He  is  an  old  man,  Miss  Bethune  ;  over  seventy,  is  he 
not?' 

'  Ay,  he's  seeventy-seeven.' 

'  Ah,  well !  he  has  passed  the  span,  and  he's  had  a  long 
and  healthy  life.' 

'  Then  he  hasna  lang  ? ' 

'  A  few  days ;  a  week  at  the  most.  You  may 
apply  the  remedies  I  have  recommended,  but  I  fear 
they  will  not  avail  much.  Both  lungs  are  seriously 
congested.' 

'  That's  jist  as  John  was,  yell  mind,  Doctor  Hay  ? ' 

1  Yes,  I  remember  quite  well.  It  is  a  curious  coinci- 
dence. You  are  standing  out  well.  How  are  these  clever 
nephews  of  yours  getting  on  ? ' 

'  Brawly.  Did  ye  see  Jamie's  last  papor  intae 
Chaumers's  ? ' 

'  Yes,  I  saw  it.  He  will  make  his  mark  yet.  "Well, 
I  must  go.  If  I  am  passing,  I'll  look  in  to-morrow 
morning.' 

'  A'  richt !  Guid  mornin',  sir,'  said  Susan  Bethune, 
and  re-entered  the  house. 

'  What  are  ye  claverin'  an'  whisperin'  there  sae 
lang  at  ? '  asked  Peter  querulously.  '  What  did  he 
say  ?  Am  I  gaun  to  dee  or  no',  that  what's  I  want 
to  ken  ? ' 

'  Ye  are  verra  seriously  ill,  Pete,'  she  answered,  look- 
ing with  deep  compassion  at  the  withered  face  and  the 
restless  eye,  gleaming  under  the  shaggy  brows  with  an 
unnatural  brilliance.  His  unkempt  grey  hair  hung  over 
his  brow,  and  gave  to  him  a  wild  appearance — how 
different,  she  could  not  help  thinking,  from  John  in  his 
last  illness  1  She  wondered  at  her  own  callousness  con- 


192  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

cerning  Peter,  remembering  how  her  heart  ha3  been 
wrung  when  she  was  told  that  there  was  no  hope  for 
John.  Ties  of  blood  are  strong,  no  doubt ;  but  they  can 
be  robbed  of  strength  and  sweetness  alike  by  indifference 
and  neglect.  Peter  Bethune  had  lived  for  himself  and 
selfish  ends  all  his  days,  and  not  many  regrets  would 
follow  him  to  the  grave. 

'  "Weel,  if  I  maun  dee,  I  maun,  I  suppose  ;  but  I'm  no' 
that  auld,'  he  said  in  the  same  fretful,  queialous  tone. 
'  Marget's  first  man  was  faur  frailer  nor  me,  an'  he 
leeved  till  he  was  ninety.' 

'  Dinna  fash  yer  heid  aboot  Sammy  Tamson,  Pete.  If 
yer  time's  come,  ye  needna  mind ;  an'  if  no',  ye  maun 
seek  for  grace  noo.' 

'  Grace !  I've  never  dune  onybody  ony  herra,  I'm 
sure.  I've  neither  been  a  drucken  nor  a  dishonest 
man ;  I've  aye  paid  my  way.  What  mair  can  a  cratui 
dae?' 

'  That'll  no*  open  the  door  to  the  kingdom  o'  heevin, 
Pete.  Ye  maun  ask  the  Lord  to  forgie  ye  yer  sip  for 
the  Saviour's  sake,  or  ye  canna  win  there.' 

'  Aweel,  I'm  sure  He  micht  forgie  me,  for  I've  aye 
paid  my  way.  Maybe  I've  never  gien  that  muckle  to 
the  kirk,  but  a  body  canna  gie  to  a'thing ;  an'  as  for 
gaun  every  Sawbath,  I  was  gled  to  get  a  rest,  especially 
as  ye  didna  get  muckle  whiles  when  ye  gaed.' 

'  Aweel,  Pete,  I  canna  arguefy  wi'  ye,  my  man ;  only 
I  houp  and  pray  that  the  Lord  '11  hae  mercy  on  yer  soul,' 
said  Susan  Bethune  sorrowfully.  '  Sandy  '11  maybe  be 
able  to  mak'  the  thing  plain  till  ye.  I  askit  Doctor 
Hay  to  telegram  to  him,  an'  he'll  maybe  be  here  the 
nicht' 

'Aweel,  I'll  be  gled  to  see  him/  said  the  sick  man 
drowsily,  and  turning  over  he  fell  asleep  again ;  but  it 


DESOLATE  AGE.  193 

a  troubled,  uneasy  slumber,  broken  by  many  a  start 
and  moan  of  pain.  Susan  Bethune's  heart  yearned  over 
him  unspeakably,  but  she  did  not  know  how  to  speak  or 
prepare  him  for  the  last  great  change,  and  could  only 
pray  for  him  in  her  heart. 

The  day  wore  on  slowly,  but  the  old  man  seemed  to 
grow  more  uneasy  and  restless,  and  was  never  a  moment 
in  the  same  position.  It  was  a  wild,  wintry  day ;  rain 
fell  in  gusty  torrents,  and  the  wind  howled  and  whistled 
through  the  dreary  house  with  many  an  uncanny  sound, 
which  made  Susan  Bethune  feel  eerie  and  melancholy, 
and  wish  for  something  to  divert  her  thoughts.  About 
the  darkening  there  came  a  timid  knock  to  the  door,  and 
when  Susan  Bethune  opened  it  she  saw  a  woman 
stj^ding  there,  with  a  little  boy  clinging'  to  her 
skirts. 

'  Weel,  my  wummin,  what  d'ye  want  ? '  she  asked, 
holding  .the  candle  higher,  so  that  she  might  see  the 

stran^erY  *ft?Q. 

ic  « 
'  I'm   /^stress  Galbraith — Jeanie  Tarnson  that  was,' 

she  said  meekly  and  humbly.  '  I  was  up  at  the  Windy- 
gates  the  day,  an'  they  telt  me  the  maister  was  awfu'  ill. 
I  cam'  to  speer  for  him.' 

'  Come  in.  Ye  was  surely  fell  anxious  when  ye 
stravaged  the  road  wi'  that  bairn  on  sic  a  nicht.  Come 
in/  said  Susan  Bethune  drily,  and  yet  her  glance  was 
kind  and  compassionate,  and  she  took  the  little  boy  by 
the  hand,  and  led  him  into  the  warm,  well-lighted  kitchen, 
the  mother  following  behind. 

'  Sit  ye  doon ;  ye  are  a  puir,  jimpy  thing,  Hae  ye 
no'  been  weel  ? '  asked  Susan  abruptly.  '  Dinna  speak 
abune  yer  breath  ;  he's  sleepin',  ye  see,  an'  he's  sair 
needin't.' 

'I've  been  gey  silly  sin'  my  man  dee'd;  I've  haen 

17 


19 i  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

ower  muckle  adae,'  said  the  widow.  '  It's  a  sair  fecht 
for  a  weedy  wummin,  Miss  Bethune.' 

'Ay,  is  it.  I  was  speakin'  till  him  aboot  ye  the 
day.  He  canna  mend,  the  doctor  says,  an'  I  wad  fain 
see  justice  dune  afore  he  dees,'  said  Susan  Bethune  in  her 
stern,  matter-of-fact  way.  '  Ye'll  no'  hae  gotten  muckle 
frae  him  readilys  ?' 

'  No'  a  bawbee,  an'  when  I  made  bold  to  come  and 
speer  for  my  mither's  claes  an'  things  efter  she  dee'd,  he 
cursed  and  swore  at  me  like  a'  that,'  said  the  widow. 
'  D'ye  no'  think  it  but  richt  that  I  should  get  something 
for  my  bairns  ?  He  got  a  guid  pickle  gear  and  siller  wi' 
my  mither.' 

'  I  ken  that,  lassie,  an'  I  certainly  think  ye  should 
get  whatever  was  yer  mither's,  baith  claes  and  silltfi,' 
said  Susan  Bethune  decidedly.  '  It  was  a  stupid  mar- 
riage for  them  baith,  I  think.' 

'  "Wha's  that  clashing  wi'  ye  there  ? '  cried  the  old  man 
shrilly,  waking  up  out  of  his  sleep,  and  raisi^1  himself 
on  his  elbow.  '  It's  you,  Jean  Tamson,  sht$F  at  my 
fireside  !  Ye  may  clear  oot,  you  an'  yer  bairu',  for  ye'll 
no'  get  naething  here.  Are  ye  jist  waitin'  or  I'm  a  corp 
tae  tak'  a  big  haul  ?  but  ye'll  find  ye're  mista'en,  my  leddy. 
Ye  marriet  a  ne'er-do-weel,  wha  spent  a'  ye  got,  and  ye 
maun  jist  lie  on  the  bed  ye  hae  made.  Pit  her  oot, 
Shoosan,  or  I'll  rise  an'  dae't  myselY 

The  little  boy,  who  had  been  warming  himself  at  the 
fire,  looked  in  silent  terror  at  the  wild  old  man,  glaring 
at  them  from  between  the  curta'is  of  the  bed,  and  then 
set  up  a  shrill  scream. 

'  Gae  'wa'  into  the  ither  end,  my  wummin,'  whispered 
Susa  i  Bethune  hastily.  '  I'll  kindle  a  fire  for  ye,  an' 
ye  can  sleep  there  a'  nicht.  Awa',  see,  or  he'll  be  in  a 
perfect  fury.'  So  saying,  she  lifted  the  candle,  and 


DESOLATE  AGE.  195 

hurried  them  away  to  the  other  end,  and  bade  them 
keep  quiet  there  till  she  had  quietened  the  furious  old 
man. 

'  Nae  suner  is  a  body  laid  doon  wi'  a  gliff  o'  cauld 
even,  than  there's  twa  or  three,  or  half  a  dizzen,  sittin' 
roond  like  corbies,  waitin'  or  he  dee,'  he  said  fumingly. 
'  Yell  better  get  awa'  back  to  the  Star,  Shoosan  ;  ye're 
in  league  wi'  thae  Tamsons,  an'  they're  a  greedy,  ill 
set,  that  leeve  for  ever  aff  ither  folk.' 

'  Wheesht,  see,  this  meenit,  or  I'll  gie  ye  a  fricht,  my 
man,'  said  Susan  Bethune  quietly.  'Lie  doon,  see,  an' 
keep  the  claes  on  yersel'.  Eh,  but  ye're  a  thrawn  man.' 

The  old  man  tossed  and  struggled  with  the  bed- 
clothes, throwing  them  off  as  fast  as  his  sister  put 
t\~m  on,  until,  thoroughly  exhausted,  he  sank  back 
almost  gasping  for  breath. 

Then'  Susan  Bethune  carefully  covered  him  with  the 
clothes,  and  turned  away  with  a  sore  heart.  It  was 
a  pitifu1  ^  ;-rht  to  see  the  old  man  struggling  on  the 
very  brir[£  of  the  grave,  so  loth  to  leave  the  world, 
because  1  ^  gear  and  concerns  were  still  his  only  gods. 
Oh,  how  different  from  the  calm,  beautiful  peace  with 
which  John  had  waited  his  summons  home  to  dwell 
for  ever  with  the  God  he  had  so  faithfully  served 
through  all  his  blameless  life !  She  wiped  her  eyes 
as  she  looked  into  the  dancing  fire,  and  prayed  that 
her  last  end  might  be  like  John's.  She  carried  a 
shovelful  of  blazing  coal  into  the  other  end,  and  built 
up  a  roaring  fire  for  the  widow  and  her  boy.  But  she 
dared  not  talk  to  her,  lest  Peter,  hearing  their  voices, 
should  get  into  a  passion  again.  About  seven  o'clock, 
as  she  was  making  a  spoonful  of  porridge  for  the 
bairn,  the  door  opened,  and  the  minister  of  Lochbroom 
stalked  in. 


196  TEE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

'  Eh,  man,  I'm  fell  gled  to  see  ye  !  An'  hoo  are  ye  ? ' 
she  said,  shaking  him  heartily  by  the  hand,  and  looking 
with  interest  into  his  handsome  face,  which  had  a  fine 
ruddy  colour  just  then,  owing  to  the  exertion  of  walking 
through  wind  and  rain. 

'  I  am  very  well,  thank  you,  Aunt  Susan ;  and  how 
are  you  ? '  he  asked.  '  I  got  Hay's  telegram  about  half- 
past  one,  just  in  time  to  catch  the  two  express,  or  I 
wouldn't  have  been  here  to-night.  How  is  he  ? ' 

'  Faur  through.  He's  sleepin'  again,  an'  nae  wunner, 
efter  the  ferment  he's  been  in.  Eh,  he's  an  awfu'  auld 
cratur !  I  houp,  Sandy,  ye'll  be  able  to  pit  him  in  a 
better  frame  o'  mind.  He's  faur  frae  bein'  ready  to 
dee.  But  ye'll  be  a'  weet  ? ' 

V  ! 

'  Oh  no,  it  is  more  wind  than  rain.  When  did  you 
come  from  Star  ? ' 

*  Only  yestreen.  He's  no'  been  lang  iK,  but  he 
canna  lest.  Eh,  man,  ye're  growin'  an  avfu'  wise- 
like  chield!' 

'  Wasn't  I  always  that,  Aunt  Susan  ? '  he  a&e"i  with  a 
smile.  '  When  did  you  hear  from  Jamie  ? ' 

'  Yesterday.  He  never  misses  his  day,'  said  the  old 
woman  with  happy  pride.  'Isn't  he  a  wunnerfu' 
chap  ? ' 

'  He's  going  to  succeed  after  all.  There's  a  terrible 
resolution  in  him,'  said  the  minister,  drawing  in  his 
chair  to  the  fire.  '  Why,  what's  that  ? '  he  added  with 
a  start,  for  the  sound  of  a  child's  prattle  fell  upon  his 
ears. 

'  That's  puir  Jean  Tamson,  yer  Auntie  Marget's 
lassie,  that  was  left  a  weedy  intae  Leven,  ye  ken,' 
whispered  Aunt  Susan.  '  She's  come  ower,  nae  doot,  to 
see  what  she  can  get  for  hersel'  an'  her  bairns,  an'  I 
canna  blame  her.  If  ye  get  oriy  crack  wi'  yer  uncle 


DESOLATE  AGE.  197 

ava',  ye  maun  try  an'  show  him  his  duty.  That  puir 
cratur  has  mair  need  o'  a  pickle  siller  than  either  you  01 
Jamie.' 

'  Has  he  made  a  will  ? '  asked  the  minister  musingly. 

'  Ay,  so  he  says,  but  what'll  be  in't  dear  only  kens. 
We  can  hardly  expeck  it  to  be  just.  He  disna  ken  the 
meanin'  o'  the  word.  Eh,  man,  I  canna  but  think  on 
the  difference  between  his  last  days  an'  yer  faither's. 
Thon  was  an  end  we  a'  may  envy.' 

'  They  were  always  very  different,'  said  the  minister 
rather  abruptly,  for  memory  had  a  sting ;  then  he 
changed  the  subject,  and  led  her  on  to  talk  of  other 
things. 

'  You  look  as  if  you  needed  a  rest,  Aunt  Susan.  I'll 
sit  up  with  Uncle  Peter  to-night,'  he  said  at  length. 
'  And  I'll  promise  to  wake  you  when  he  needs  any- 
thing.' 

'  Very  weel ;  I'm  no'  sweer,  for  I'm  fell  tired.  He's 
soon'  yei?,  «\n'  it's  a  peety  to  wauken  him.  I'll  lie  doon 
in  the  f  Uo'  the  bed  beside  Jeanie,  an'  ye  can  gie's  a 
cry  when  ^e  waukens.  Here's  the  sofa  for  ye.' 

The  minister  threw  off  his  boots,  and,  covering  himself 
with  the  old  plaid,  lay  down,  but  not  to  sleep.  Thought 
was  busy  within,  and  memory  was  at  work.  The 
present,  with  all  its  absorbing,  passionate  interests,  its 
hopes,  fears,  and  indescribable  yearnings,  was  absorbed 
in  contemplation  of  the  past.  A  voice  seemed  to  arise 
out  of  that  dead  past,  asking  him  warningly  whether 
he  was  redeeming  the  speeding  time ;  whether  he  had 
aught  to  show  for  all  that  had  been  given  to  him  ; 
whether,  in  the  sphere  of  life  whither  he  had  been 
called,  he  had  conscientiously  and  unselfishly  done  what 
he  could.  We  do  not  often  welcome  such  thoughts. 
He  is  a  happy  man  who  can  look  within  without  fear, 


198  •  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

who  can  think  with  calm  satisfaction  of  duty  well  done ; 
who  has  no  accusing  voice  to  whisper,  '  Thou  art  the 
man.'  Self  in  a  selfish  man  is  its  own  avenger. 

'  Shoosan,  gie  me  a  drink ! '  The  feeble,  faltering 
request  broke  Sandy  Bethune's  reverie,  and  he  leaped 
to  his  feet. 

'  Wha  are  you  ? '  asked  the  sick  man  wonderingly. 
'  Oh,  it's  you,  Sandy  !  When  did  ye  come  ? ' 

'  An  hour  or  two  ago.  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  so 
poorly,  Uncle  Peter,'  he  said,  laying  his  firm,  strong 
hand  on  the  poor  nerveless  fingers.  'Are  you  feeling 
very  weak  ? ' 

'  Oo  ay,  I'm  clean  dune.  Are  you  come  to  look  efter 
the  bawbees  tae  ? ' 

Sandy  Bethune's  face  flushed,  for  no  such  thought  had 
as  yet  presented  itself  to  his  mind. 

'Ye  dinna  like  that,'  ch-".^led  the  old  man.  'Aweel, 
I  canna  blame  ye.  Set  up  Shoosan,  wull  ye  ?*-  I  canna 
get  breath.'  ^>v 

The  minister  went  out  into  the  lobfcy>: ffi-'ly  called 
to  his  aunt,  and  then  returned  to  the  bedside.  Seeing 
the  difficulty  tH  old  man  felt  in  breathing,  he  put  his 
arm  round  his  shoulder,  and  raised  him  up  among  the 
pillows.  The  fast  glazing  f  eyes  looked  up  into  his  with 
a  look  of  strange  questioning,  which  was  painful  in  its 
intensity. 

'  Ye're  a  minister,  Sandy.  Whaur  d'ye  think  I'll 
gang  in  the  ither  warld  ? ' 

'If  you  trust  in  God's  promises,  Uncle  Peter,  you  will 
go  to  heaven.' 

'  Ay,  but  what's  the  promises  ?  I  canna  mind  them. 
I  wish  I  had  leeved  a  different  life.  The  wull's  i'  the 
drawer  up  the  stair  ;  ye'll  get  the  key  in  my  breek  pooch. 
I'm  no'  able  to  alter  't  noo,  but  ye'll  see  Jean  Tamson 


DESOLATE  AGE.  199 

disna  want,  an'  share  the  rest  wi'  Jamie  ;  I  was  maybe 
ower  hard  on  him.  Is  that  you,  Shoosan  ? ' 

'  Ay,  it's  me,  Peter,  my  man  ;  ye're  slippin'  awa'/  said 
Susan  Bethune  with  her  apron  to  her  eyes.  '  Pray  for 
yer  uncle,  Sandy.' 

'  Never  heed  noo,'  said  the  old  man  in  a  drowsy 
whisper.  '  He'll  maybe  lat  me  in,  for  I've  aye — paid — 
ray— way ' 


CHAPTEE  XV. 


RETKIBUTION. 

Tor  her  sweet  sake  he  sinned,  and  she  would 
Have  none  of  him.     He  paid  the  price,  and  went 
Forth  to  the  night  alone.' 


T  the  old-fashioned  bureau  in  the  best  room  at 
Auchtermaimie  sat  the  minister  of  Loch- 
broom,  the  flickering  candlelight  gleaming 
fitfully  on  his  face,  v.hich  wore  an  expression 
of  perplexity  almost  amounting  to  bewilder- 
ment. It  was  ".bout  five  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  Susan  Bethune  aid  Jeanie  Thomson, 
after  having  performed  the  last  offices  for  the  dead,  had 
laid  themselves  down  again  to  snatch  an  hour  or  two's 
repose.  There  was  no  need  to  watch  any  more  by  Peter 
Bethune  now.  Sandy  had  lain  down,  too,  on  the  sofa  in 
the  kitchen,  but,  though  he  was  no  coward,  he  could  not 
close  his  eyes  and  the  dead  so  near.  It  is  a  strange 
mystery — the  awe  and  dread  with  which  mortal  clay  can 
fill  the  living ;  the  bravest  of  us  quail  at  the  touch  of 

the  unseen.     So  the  minister  had  been  glad  to  escape 

200 


RETRIBUTION.  201 

from  the  kitchen,  and  now,  in  his  absorbing  interest 
in  the  papers  before  him,  he  had  forgotten  his  natural 
shrinking. 

It  was  the  last  will  and  testament  of  Peter  Bethune, 
farmer  in  Auchtermairnie,  and  its  contents  were  brief 
enough,  yet  wholly  satisfactory  to  Sandy  Bethune.  For 
it  made  him  sole  and  absolute  heir  to  everything  that  had 
pertained  to  his  dead  uncle ;  and  when  he  opened  the 
bank-book  lying  in  one  of  the  pigeon-holes,  he  started  in 
surprise  at  the  substantial  balance  lying  to  his  account 
in  the  Commercial  Bank  at  Leven. 

It  came  within  a  few  shillings  of  three  thousand 
pounds ;  and,  when  the  stock  and  crop  and  implements 
were  sold,  would  make  a  very  snug  little  fortune.  And 
it  was  all  his,  left  to  him  absolutely  and  entirely  in  the 
document  before  him,  which  none  dared  dispute.  The 
minister  of  Lochbroom  was  not  a  mercenary  man, — that 
is,  he  had  not  Peter  Bethune's  love  of  gold  for  its  own 
sake, — but  he  was  keenly  alive  to  the  influence  and  import- 
ance it  could  confer  upon  its  possessor.  As  he  sat 
there  in  the  dim  stillness  of  the  early  morning,  new 
hopes  and  loveliest  dreams  sprang  in  his  heart,  dreams 
and  hopes  which  had  but  one  centre — Beatrice  Lorraine. 
With  what  confidence  could  he  ask  her  from  her  father 
now  when  he  had  something  more  than  his  meagre 
stipend  to  offer!  His  heait  bounded,  his  pulses  leaped 
at  the  thought.  But  there  was  Jamie,  and  his  uncle's 
step-daughter  down-stairs,  the  old  man's  dying  charge. 
Was  it  not  as  sacred  and  binding  as  any  written  words  ? 
He  rose,  pushed  back  his  hair  from  his  brow,  and,  walking 
over  to  the  unshuttered  window,  looked  out  upon  the 
dawning  day.  Strange  thoughts  chased  each  other 
through  his  brain,  his  heart  beat  almost  to  suffocation, 
his  brow  reddened,  his  hand  upon  the  window-sill 


202  TEE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

trembled  as  if  with  ague.  Temptation  had  him  in  its 
fiercest  thrall.  With  a  deep,  heavy  sigh,  which  was 
almost  a  groan,  he  turned  about  at  length,  and,  stealing 
softly  downstairs,  went  out  of  doors.  It  was  a  calm, 
quiet  morning,  with  a  strange,  grey  stillness  lying  over 
all,  as  if  the  earth  were  weary  after  the'  beating  of  the 
storm.  One  long  yellow  line  away  to  eastward  gave 
promise  of  the  wintry  sunrise,  the  only  break  in  the  grey 
expanse  of  sky.  He  stood  only  a  moment  on  the 
threshold,  and  then  turned  away  through  the  corn-yard, 
where  the  busy  poultry  were  already  enjoying  their 
morning  meal.  The  ground  was  wet  and  sodden,  and 
covered  with  the  last  autumn  leaves  which  the  night 
wind  had  whirled  from  the  chestnut  trees.  They  rustled 
under  his  feet  as  he  walked,  but  he  paid  no  heed ;  his 
own  thoughts  were  all-absorbing.  He  clasped  his  hands 
behind  his  back,  and  walked  slowly,  with  his  eyes  bent 
on  the  ground,  following  unconsciously  the  pathway 
which  led  up  to  the  higher  fields.  The  light  broadened 
as  he  went,  and  the  misty  shadows  began  to  rise  from 
the  uplands  as  the  new  day  stole  upon  the  earth.  He 
stood  still  at  length  at  a  little  stile,  and,  folding  his  arms 
on  its  mossy  rail,  looked  about  him  curiously,  almost  as 
a  stranger  might  have  looked  at  what  was  unfamiliar. 
Yet  he  knew  every  rood  and  pole,  every  stone  and  land- 
mark for  miles  around ;  no  scenery  in  the  world  would 
ever  be  more  familiar  than  what  was  spread  before  him 
at  that  moment.  It  had  a  dreary  and  desolate  look  in 
the  chill  morning  light, — the  barren  stubble  fields ;  the 
potato  fields,  with  only  heaps  of  sodden  shaws  and  the 
long,  newly-filled  pits  to  tell  of  what  had  been ;  the  bare 
pasture-lands,  bleached  and  sodden  with  the  rains ;  the 
swollen  burns  and  leafless  trees,  all  seemed  to  say  sadly 
and  pitifully  that  the  reign  of  winter  had  begun.  Yet 


RETRIBUTION.  203 

there  were  some  comforting  things  too  in  that  wide 
prospect ;  each  homestead  had  its  well-filled  stackyard, 
and  on  the  earlier  lands  the  lea  had  its  long  regular 
furrows  already  upturned  for  winter  wheat.  He  turned 
his  face  towards  the  Star,  with  its  background  of  purple- 
brown  moss,  framed  by  the  graceful  peaks  of  the  Lomonds. 
He  could  see  the  thatched  roof  of  his  father's  house ; 
how  long  it  "seemed  since  he  had  been  wont  to  call  it 
home  !  He  could  see  the  Knowe  too,  and  could  even 
discern  some  figures  moving  about  the  out-buildings,  the 
ploughmen,  probably,  beginning  the  labour  of  another  day. 
As  is  often  the  case  in  moments  of  strong  feeling,  he  was 
keenly  observant  of  every  minute  detail,  even  when  his 
mind  was  fully  occupied  by  something  else.  Alexander 
Bethune  had  a  battle  to  fight  that  winter's  day ;  a  grand 
opportunity  offered  itself  for  him  to  obtain  a  signal 
victory  over  himself.  But  he  did  not  face  it  yet.  He 
preferred  rather  to  hover  about  the  temptation,  to  try 
and  parry  a  little  with  an  evil  thought,  picturing  to 
himself  all  it  would  involve  and  all  it  would  give, 
although  assuring  himself  all  the  while  that  he  would 
never  do  the  wrong  with  which  he  was  tempted.  Still 
thinking,  still  picturing  all  the  advantages  which  might 
be  his  if  he  allowed  his  uncle's  will  to  stand,  he  began 
slowly  to  retrace  his  steps  to  the  house.  The  inmates 
were  now  astir,  Aunt  Susan  busying  herself  with  the 
breakfast,  and  inclined  to  grumble  because  she  had 
allowed  the  day  to  get  so  far  ahead  of  her. 

'  Come  awa'  an'  get  yer  bite,  Sandy,'  she  said  when 
she  heard  him  come  in.  '  I  saw  ye  awa'  up  the 
Whummle  Brae.  It's  near  eicht  a'ready ;  I  declare 
there's  nae  day  the  noo.  Wull  ye  can  bide  or  the 
funeral's  ower  ? ' 

'  Yes ;    I'll    go    to    Edinburgh    to-morrow,    and    see 


-V' 

V 


204  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

about  supply.     I  think  I'll  walk  down   to  Leven  this 
morning.' 

'  Are  ye  gaun  to  get  a'thing  frae  Leven  ?  Yer  uncle 
said  the  nicer  wad  jist  tak'  him  in,  an'  a'thing  could  be 
dune  as  cheap's  possible.  Puir  cratur,  he  bothered  hissel' 
aboot  siller  to  the  hinder-end.' 

'  That's  nonsense,  Aunt  Susan.  He  must  have  a 
proper  funeral,'  said  the  minister  testily.  "'  I'll  need  to 
telegraph  to  Jamie  too.' 

'  Eh,  I  houp  he'll  can  get,  for  I'm  fain  to  see  him,' 
said  Aunt  Susan  with  a  tremor  in  her  voice.  '  It'll 
need  ye  baith  onyway,  for  there'll  be  a  heap  adae. 
There'll  hae  to  be  a  roup  in  Auchtermairnie  at  last.' 

'  I  suppose  so.  It  is  a  pity  Jamie  had  not  been  at 
home  to  step  into  Uncle  Peter's  shoes.  It  would  have 
suited  him  very  well,  if  only  he  could  have  brought  him- 
self to  think  it.' 

Aunt  Susan  shook  her  head. 

'  The  laddie  kent  his  ain  ken  best.  The  way  fermin' 
is  noo,  he's  better  whaur  he  is.  But  this'll  be  a  windfa' 
for  you,  Sandy.  Yer  uncle  telt  me  yestreen  that  ye  get 
a'.  But  ye'll  mind  Jamie,  an'  that  puir  cratur  ben  the 
hoose  onyway.' 

'  Of  course,  of  course  ! '  said  the  minister  hastily,  and 
bent  his  head  low  over  his  cup,  for  the  hot  blood  rushed 
to  his  face  and  dyed  it  red. 

'  I  threepit  wi'  him  to  be  just  wi'  his  gear,  but  ye 
micht  as  weel  threep  wi'  a  stane  dyke,'  said  Aunt  Susan, 
not  noticing  her  nephew's  slight  confusion.  '  Aweel, 
a'thing  comes  tae  an  end.  An'  hoo  are  ye  comin'  on  at 
Loch  broom  ?  When  are  ye  gaun  to  bring  yer  braw  wife 
to  the  manse  ?  Jamie  telt  me  aboot  her  last  time  he 
was  ower.' 

'  Jamie  is  too  ready  with  his  tongue,  Aunt  Susan,'  said 


RETRIBUTION.  205 

the  minister  shortly.  '  It  was  time  enough  for  him  to 
speak  so  sure  when  I  am  sure  myself.  I  have  never 
asked  any  woman  to  come  to  the  manse  yet.' 

'  Aweel,  ye  needna  be  sae  short.  I  wasna  speerin'  an 
impident  question,  Sandy,'  said  the  old  woman  candidly. 
'  Are  ye  for  awa'  to  Leven  a'ready  ?  Laddie,  ye're  jist  like 
that  kittle  mare  o'  yer  uncle's — ye  canna  rest  a  meenit. 
A  body  disna  get  muckle  crack  o'  you.' 

'  I  had  better  go  and  get  everything  ready,  for  if  I  don't 
get  supply,  I'll  be  obliged  to  go  home  and  come  back  in 
time  for  the  funeral  on  Monday.  I'll  telegraph  to 
Jamie  at  once,  and  see  if  he  can  come.'  So  saying, 
Sandy  put  on  his  coat,  took  his  hat  and  umbrella,  and 
set  out  for  Leveu. 

The  message  was  duly  sent,  but  the  answer  came  back 
that  it  would  be  impossible  for  Jamie  to  come,  as  he  was 
just  starting  for  Inverness  to  report  the  proceedings  of 
a  Highland  Convention  which  was  to  last  for  two  or 
three  days.  The  minister  failed  in  securing  supply,  and 
was  obliged  to  go  home  next  day,  so  that  Susan  Bethune 
was  left  alone  at  Auchtennairnie  over  the  Sabbath.  But 
she  kept  Jeanie  and  the  boy  with  her,  and  they  were 
nothing  loth  to  stay.  On  Monday  forenoon  Sandy 
returned,  and  followed  his  Uncle  Peter's  remains  to  the 
grave.  He  was  the  only  near  relative,  for  none  of  the 
old  man's  step-sons  attended,  though  they  were  all  within 
easy  distance.  They  had  always  been  at  war,  and  would 
not  put  themselves  about  to  pay  any  respect  to  him  now. 
These  things  of  course  occasioned  plenty  of  talk  both  in 
Windygates  and  the  Star,  and  the  Bethunes  and  their 
affairs  at  that  time  got  an  extra  redd -up.  The  roup 
would  be  the  next  excitement,  followed  by  the  entrance 
of  a  new  tenant  to  Auchtermairnie.  During  the  next 
tew  weeks  the  minister  of  Lochbroom  had  a  busy  time  of 


206  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

it,  running  between  Auchtermairnie  and  his  own  parish. 
Everybody  agreed  that  he  had  been  very  generous  to 
Jeanie  Thomson ;  for  he  had  not  only  given  her  every- 
thing that  had  been  her  mother's,  but  made  her  a  present 
of  ten  pounds  and  all  the  gear  left  in  the  house  after 
Aunt  Susan  had  taken  away  such  things  as  were  valuable 
in  her  eyes  because  of  their  old  associations. 

While  all  this  was  going  on,  Jamie  was  working  hard  at 
Glasgow,  and  never  giving  a  thought  to  his  Uncle  Peter's 
money  or  gear.  He  was  kept  busy  late  and  early,  for 
the  season  had  begun  in  Glasgow,  and  he  had  so  many 
meetings  to  attend  that  he  sometimes  hardly  knew  how 
to  manage  them  all.  There  would  be  no  holiday  for 
him,  he  wrote  his  aunt,  until  winter  was  past.  He  had 
very  little  leisure  for  his  own  special  work,  yet  time  was 
far  from  being  lost  to  him.  His  employers,  speedily 
recognising  in  him  a  mind  above  the  average,  and  being 
willing  to  help  him  as  far  as  lay  in  their  power,  in 
return  for  his  conscientious  and  unremitting  attention  to 
their  business,  made  a  point  of  sending  him  to  all  the 
best  meetings,  where  he  could  hear  men  of  culture  and 
experience  lecture  or  speak ;  and  so  a  new  and  valuable 
field  was  opened  up  to  him.  Apart  from  his  duties  as  a 
reporter,  he  was  asked  sometimes  to  contribute  articles  on 
social  or  literary  topics  for  the  weekly  issue  of  the 
Journal,  for  which  he  was  handsomely  paid.  Altogether 
it  looked  as  if  he  had  reached  that  tide  in  his  affairs 
which,  if  taken  at  the  flood,  would  lead  him  on  to 
fortune.  Martinmas  saw  great  changes  at  Auchter- 
mairnie. The  roup  was  a  great  success,  and  brought  in 
a  clear  thousand  to  the  lucky  minister  of  Lochbroom. 
There  had  been  keen  competition  among  the  bidders,  and 
the  new  tenant,  a  Kirkcaldy  grocer,  with  plenty  of 
means  but  little  skill  in  farming,  was  made  to  pay  very 


RETRIBUTION.  207 

sweetly  for  what  stock  and  implements  he  purchased. 
When  it  was  all  over,  and  everything  turned  into  hard 
cash,  Sandy  wrote  to  his  brother,  telling  him  about  his 
uncle's  will,  and  offering  to  help  him  with  some  money, 
which  he  might  regard  as  a  loan  if  he  liked.  But  Jamie 
wrote  back  at  once,  congratulating  him  upon  his  good 
fortune,  and  thanking  him  for  his  offer,  which,  however, 
he  declined.  His  salary  was  sufficient  for  his  needs,  and 
he  was  saving  money  fast.  In  the  last  sentence  he 
threw  out  a  hint  about  Beatrice  Lorraine,  and  expressed 
the  hope  that  he  would  hear  something  definite  con- 
cerning her  at  no  distant  date.  It  did  not  cost  James 
Bethune  any  sting  t^>  write  in  such  a  strain,  for,  though 
he  had  been  deeply  interested  in  the  woman  Sandy  had 
so  long  loved,  it  had  been  a  strange,  distant  kind  of 
interest,  which  one  might  feel  in  some  object  dazzling 
and  desirable,  perhaps,  but  far  out  of  reach.  He  looked 
back  upon  that  evening  spent  at  the  manse  of  St.  Giles 
as  a  bright  spot  in  his  existence  which  he  would  never 
forget.  The  face  of  Beatrice  Lorraine  was  engraven  on 
his  heart;  he  could  recall  every  changing  expression,  every 
flash  of  light  in  the  magnificent  eyes,  every  sweet 
intonation  of  her  voice ;  but  he  believed  that  when  she 
became  his  brother's  wife  he  should  be  able  to  regard 
her  as  a  sister,  whom  it  was  a  privilege  and  an  honour 
to  love  with  a  brother's  love.  And  so  his  memory  of 
her  was  no  disturbing  element,  but  rather  a  sweet, 
ennobling  thought,  urging  him  on  towards  everything 
good. 

Jamie's  letter  set  the  minister  of  Lochbroom  a-think- 
ing  that  December  evening  when  it  came.  He  had 
been  so  much  from  home  of  late  that  he  had  seen 
very  little  of  the  Lorraines.  Why  should  he  wait  any 
longer  ?  He  had  no  hope  of  ever  being  sure  of  her  answer 


208  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

to  the  question  which  would  make  him  a  happy  or  a 
miserable  man.  No  woman  had  ever  so  puzzled  him 
before ;  her  very  indifference  to  him  rendered  her  doubly 
desirable  in  his  eyes.  He  was  not  altogether  without 
hope;  the  flattery  and  attention  to  which  he  had  long 
been  accustomed  from  other  women  made  him  inclined 
to  believe  that  this  one  would  not  refuse. 

As  he  sat  there  in  the  stillness,  heart  and  mind  filled 
with  thoughts  of  her,  there  came  to  him  a  great  yearning 
to  look  upon  her  face,  to  hear  from  her  lips  the  words 
which  would  make  for  him  weal  or  woe.  There  was  no 
reason  why  he  should  not  see  her  within  that  very  hour, 
so  he  rose,  and,  following  his  own  impulse,  left  the  house, 
and  turned  along  the  now  familiar  Cleugh  road. 

It  was  a  bright,  clear,  frosty  night,  with  a  brilliant 
moon  at  its  full.  There  were  white  caps  on  the  Lanark 
hills,  and  the  north  wind  was  biting  enough  to  hint  at  a 
promise  of  more  snow.  There  were  no  leaves  in  the 
Nethercleugh  woods  now,  and  on  the  burn  path  it  was 
almost  as  clear  as  day.  But  the  minister  of  Lochbroom 
could  have  walked  that  way  blindfolded,  he  knew  every 
step  by  heart.  He  walked  quickly,  for  the  air  was 
bitterly  cold,  and  his  whole  appearance  was  that  of  a 
man  who  had  an  end  in  view.  In  little  more  than  half 
an  hour  he  stood  on  the  stone  steps  of  the  house,  ringing 
for  admittance. 

'Mr.  Lorraine  is  not  at  home,  sir,  but  Miss  Lorraine 
is,'  said  the  servant  who  answered  his  summons. 

'  I  will  see  Miss  Lorraine,  if  you  please,'  he  replied 
abruptly,  and  the  girl  looked  at  him  in  slight  surprise, 
missing  the  accustomed  pleasant  word  which  made  him 
so  popular  with  his  parishioners. 

'Very  well,  sir,'  she  said,  and  shut  the  door,  while  he 
took  off  his  hat  and  coat.  Then  she  opened  the  library 


RETRIBUTION.  209 

door  and  announced  him  by  name.  As  he  entered  he 
heard  the  rustle  of  a  silken  robe,  and  in  the  dim  fire- 
light saw  Beatrice  Lorraine  rise  from  her  low  chair  on 
the  hearth. 

'  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Bethune  ?  I  am  all  alone  and  in 
darkness,  you  see,'  she  said,  and  he  fancied  her  voice  a 
little  unsteady.  '  Please  let  us  have  candles  at  once, 
Kitty,'  she  added  to  the  servant.  '  Papa  is  not  at  home, 
Mr.  Bethune/ 

'  But  he  will  return  to-night  ? ' 

'  Oh  yes.  Uncle  John  and  Aunt  Dora  are  at  Locker- 
bie Manse,  and  papa  has  gone  to  dine  with  them.  I 
was  disappointed  that  I  could  not  accompany  him,  but 
I  have  had  a  cold  for  some  days,  and  papa  would  not 
allow  me  to  go  out,'  she  answered,  and  as  the  maid 
lighted  the  candles  in  the  silver  sconces  on  the  mantel, 
she  averted  her  face  a  little,  half  shading  it  with  her 
hand.  The  gesture  caused  the  lace  at  her  sleeves  to  fall 
back  to  the  elbow,  revealing  the  exquisite  contour  of  the 
round  white  arm, — the  most  beautiful  arm  the  minister 
of  Lochbroom  had  ever  seen.  The  maid  stirred  up  the 
fire  and  left  the  room,  then  a  constrained  silence  fell 
upon  its  occupants. 

'  When  did  you  hear  from  your  brother  ?  He  is  well, 
I  hope  ? '  said  Beatrice  at  length,  but  still  her  eyes  were 
averted,  as  if  she  could  not  meet  his  gaze. 

'  I  do  not  hear  from  him  very  often,  but  I  believe  he 
is  well ;  and  I  know  he  is  very  busy.  He  was  always 
a  plodder.' 

'  He  will  succeed,  I  am  sure.  When  will  he  pay  a 
visit  to  Lochbroom  ? ' 

'  I  can't  tell.  He  seems  to  have  no  time  for  anything 
but  work.  Life  is  hardly  worth  living  at  the  price  he 
pays  for  it.' 

IS 


210  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

'  I  would  not  say  that.  Work  is  a  noble  and  ennobling 
thing.  I  sometimes  wish  I  had  not  such  an  idle  life. 
It  is  not  easy  to  know  just  what  is  one's  duty,'  she  said 
musingly,  and  her  hand  fell  from  her  cheek,  and  then  he 
saw  traces  of  tears  in  the  magnificent  eyes ;  they  moved 
him  to  the  very  depths. 

'  It  is  a  quiet  life  you  lead  here,  Miss  Lorraine.  Not 
many  like  you  would  be  so  content.' 

'  It  is  easy  to  be  content  beside  those  we  love,  is  it 
not  ? '  she  asked  with  a  swift,  bright  smile.  '  It  is  only 
at  times  I  fret  when  I  see  what  good  others  do  while  I 
live  at  ease  here.  Perhaps  my  opportunity  will  come 
some  day ;  at  present  my  duty  is  to  my  father,  and 
nothing  must  interfere  with  it.' 

'  Would  you  never  leave  him  ? ' 

'  Not  while  he  needs  me,'  she  answered,  and  her  colour 
rose,  for  there  was  deep  significance  in  his  tone. 

There  was  a  moment's  intense  silence,  then  the 
minister  rose  to  his  feet.  His  face  paled,  his  eyes  shone, 
his  lips  trembled  a  little  when  he  spoke. 

'  Then  there  would  be  no  hope  for  any  who  might  seek 
your  love  ? '  he  said  almost  hoarsely.  '  Beatrice,  I  stand 
before  you  to-night  an  unworthy  suppliant,  with  nothing 
but  my  love  to  recommend  me.  That  is  earnest  and  true, 
it  will  make  or  mar  my  life.  What  have  you  to  say  ? ' 

She  raised  her  hand  almost  in  pleading,  the  red  dyed 
her  cheek,  and  then  left  it  very  pale,  her  voice  fell  almost 
to  a  whisper. 

'  Oh,  hush !  Do  not  say  that ;  I  cannot  listen.  I 
believe  what  you  say,  but  it  can  never  be.' 

'Because  of  your  duty  to  your  father?'  he  asked, 
taking  a  step  nearer  to  where  she  stood,  in  her  great 
beauty,  the  woman  for  whose  sake  he  had  laid  a  sin  upon 
his  conscience,  perhaps  in  vain. 


RETRIBUTION.  211 

'  I  could  not  leave  him,  but  it  is  not  that.     I ' — 

'  In  other  circumstances,'  he  interrupted,  with  the  pain- 
ful, eager  intensity  of  a  man  speaking  of  a  vital  matter. 
'  If  I  wait — if  I  prove  to  you  by  years  of  devotion  the 
sincerity  and  depth  of  my  love — would  there  still  be  no 
hope  ? ' 

He  was  making  her  suffer  keenly;  to  a  sensitive,  deep- 
feeling  nature  it  is  always  a  terrible  thing  to  inflict  pain 
upon  another. 

'  It  would  be  wrong — unkind — to  mislead  you,'  she  said 
hurriedly.  '  It  could  never  be.  I  could  never  be  worthy 
of  the  love  you  offer.  I  am  deeply  grateful,  but  I  can 
never  be  your  wife.' 

'  N ever  '{'  he  repeated,  and  there  was  a  ring  of  despair 
in  his  voice.  '  Miss  Lorraine,  I  have  been  and  am  a  weak, 
faulty,  erring  man.  You  would  help  me  to  a  better  life. 
Without  you  I  dare  not  think  of  what  the  future  will  be. 
You  have  become  a  part  of  myself ;  I  cannot  give  you 
up.' 

'  Oh,  hush !  To-morrow  you  will  regret  these  wild 
words.  I  cannot  think  that  life  does  not  hold  many 
dearer  interests,'  she  said,  and  laid  her  white  hand  on 
the  mantel  as  if  seeking  some  support.  '  May  I  ask  you 
to  go  now  ?  I  cannot  bear  any  more.' 

'  Is  your  decision  final  and  unalterable,  Miss  Lorraine?' 
he  asked  in  a  low  voice,  though  his  eyes  still  gleamed 
with  passionate  feeling. 

'Yes,  yes;  final  and  unalterable,'  she  answered 
brokenly.  '  I  am  very  sorry.  Life  is  full  of  hard  things, 
and  we  have  all  sorrow  to  endure.  Forgive  me  if  I  have 
caused  you  pain;  I  would  not  do  so  willingly.' 

He  spoke  no  word  in  reply,  but,  turning  upon  his  heel, 
quitted  the  room  and  the  house.  That  was  a  dark  hour 
indeed  for  the  minister  of  Lochbroom ;  the  light  of  hope 


212  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

was  quenched  for  ever  in  his  aching  heart.  He  had  loved 
and  lost ;  was  there  not  a  grim  justice  in  his  pain  ?  At 
the  Knowe,  Mary  Campbell  endured  her  own  heart-sick- 
ness, hiding  it  from  the  prying  world,  and  feeling  that 
for  her  all  interest  in  life  had  fled.  What  saith  the 
Scripture  ?  '  With  what  measure  ye  mete,  it  shall  be 
measured  to  you  again.' 


CHAPTER   XVI 


SHADOWED  LIVES. 


'  Oh,  memories !  oh,  past  that  is  !  * 


GKO.  ELIOT. 


Do 


Y  daughter,  are  you  not  in  bed  yet? 
you  know  it  is  nearly  midnight  ? ' 

'  Yes,  papa ;  but  I  wanted  to  wait  for 
you.     Had  you  a  pleasant  evening  ? ' 

'Very,  but  we  missed  you.' 
Mr.  Lorraine  wheeled  in  his  favourite  chair 
to  the  fire,  and  stretched  out  his  hands  to  the 
cheerful  blaze  with  a  sigh  of  content. 

'  There  is  no  place  like  home,  Beatrice,  and  home  is 
the  best  place  for  me  now.  I  sometimes  feel  that  I  am 
a  shadow  on  the  cheerfulness  of  others.  Not  that  I 
grudge  them  their  enjoyment,  only  I  cannot  share  it.' 

'You  only  imagine  it,  dear  papa.  You  are  not  so 
gloomy  as  you  think,'  said  Beatrice  affectionately.  '  I  am 
so  glad  you  had  a  pleasant  evening.  How  are  Uncle 
John  and  Aunt  Dora  ? ' 

'  Very  well   indeed.     They  intended  going  home  to- 

213 


214  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

morrow,  but  will  come  up  here  and  spend  the  day  instead. 
They  were  so  disappointed  at  not  seeing  you.  You 
are  very  dear  to  them,  Beatrice,  and  I  do  not  wonder 
at  it.  My  darling,  every  day  I  live  I  wonder  more 
and  more  at  my  own  blindness  and  at  your  beautiful 
unselfishness.' 

'  Hush,  papa !  I  have  only  done  my  duty,  nothing 
more,  and  love  has  always  made  it  sweet,'  said  Beatrice, 
rising  from  her  chair  and  sitting  on  a  low  stool  at  her 
father's  knee. 

He  laid  his  thin  white  hand  on  her  head  with  & 
touch  full  of  love, — a  touch  which  thrilled  her  through 
and  through.  There  was  an  element  of  remorse  in  his 
love  which  gave  it  a  strange  intensity ;  every  caressing 
touch  and  tender  glance  seemed  laden -with  a  prayer  for 
forgiveness.  The  foundation  upon  which  he  had  first 
built  all  his  paternal  hopes  and  love  had  failed  him,  and 
in  his  desolation  he  had  turned  to  the  daughter  whose 
existence  had  till  then  scarcely  cost  him  a  moment's 
thought.  In  a  careless  fashion  he  had  seen  that  she  was 
provided  with  all  she  required ;  he  had  sent  her  to  the 
best  schools  at  home  and  abroad,  but  he  had  made  no 
effort  to  win  her  confidence,  or  to  still  the  hunger  of  her 
motherless  heart.  And  so  she  had  grown  up  still, 
reserved,  self-contained,  an  enigma  to  those  who  knew 
her  best. 

But  when  the  blow  fell  on  her  father's  heart,  when 
the  son  he  had  idolized  and  indulged  paid  him  back  in 
the  bitter  coin  of  ingratitude  and  shame,  she  revealed 
herself,  and,  stepping  into  the  gap,  laid  a  tender  hand  on 
the  gaping  wound,  softening  and  healing  it  with  a  match- 
less tenderness  and  unselfishness,  and  making  her  love 
a  shelter  and  solace  upon  which  he  learned  to  lean  with 
an  intensity  which  surprised  himself. 


SHADOWED  LIVES.  215 

'  But  what  kind  of  an  evening  had  you,  my  dear  ? 
Did  you  not  find  it  very  dull  ?  You  are  paler  than 
when  I  went  away.  If  you  have  not  improved  to-morrow 
we  must  have  the  doctor  up.' 

'  Oh  no,  I  am  all  right,'  she  said  quickly,  and  averted 
her  face  a  moment  from  the  keen,  tender  eyes  bent  so 
searchingly  upon  it  '  Mr.  Bethune  was  here  to-night, 
papa.' 

'  I  am  glad  to  hear  it ;  he  would  help  to  pass  an 
hour  pleasantly.  And  what  has  become  of  him  lately  ? 
we  seem  to  have  seen  so  little  of  him/ 

'Papa,  may  I  tell  you  something?'  Beatrice  asked, 
with  an  exquisite  gesture  of  trust  and  hesitation. 

Her  father  gave  a  great  start :  there  was  something  in 
the  rising  colour,  in  the  lowered  voice  and  hesitating 
manner,  which  sent  a  sudden  fear  to  his  heart.  Was  his 
'  one  ewe  lamb '  about  to  be  taken,  when  he  had  but 
newly  learned  its  priceless  value  ? 

'  What  is  it,  my  dear  ?  Do  not  keep  me  in 
suspense.' 

'  I  do  not  know  whether  I  ought  to  tell  you,  papa,  but 
it  weighs  so  heavily  on  my  heart  that  I  must,'  she  said  in 
a  low  voice.  '  He  asked  me  to  be  his  wife,  and  I  was 
afraid  lest  I  had  unconsciously  encouraged  him  to  expect 
a  different  answer.' 

'  Then  you  have  refused  him,  my  darling  ? '  and  suddenly 
she  felt  her  father's  arms  round  her,  and  he  drew  her 
very  close  to  his  heart. 

For  a  moment  there  was  nothing  said,  but  that 
embrace  was  full  of  sweetness  to  the  heart  of  Beatrice 
Lorraine,  for  it  said  more  strongly  than  words  how 
dear  and  necessary  she  had  become  to  her  father's 
happiness. 

'  But,  Beatrice,  it  was  not  on  my  account  ? '  he  added 


216  TEE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

suddenly.  '  You  are  not  sacrificing  your  own  happiness 
out  of  your  love  for  me  ? ' 

'  Oh  no,  papa  !  I  could  never  marry  him.  I  like  him 
very  well  as  an  acquaintance,  but  I  could  never  marry 
him/ 

'  I  am  glad  of  it.' 

'  Why,  papa  ? ' 

*  Because  he  is  not  worthy  of  you.  He  is  an  eloquent 
preacher  and  a  clever  young  man,  but  there  is  a  some- 
thing about  him  which  makes  me  doubt  him.  May  I 
be  forgiven  my  harsh  judgment,  but  I  do  not  think  him 
either  manly  or  sincere.' 

'  I  have  had  something  of  the  same  doubt,  papa, 
though  I  have  always  tried  to  banish  it.  It  seems  to 
me  almost  as  if  he  had  two  personalities,  only  one  of 
which  is  revealed  to  the  world.  And  he  is  too  conscious 
of  himself,  as  if  self  were  the.  centre  of  his  ideas  and  the 
mainspring  of  his  actions.' 

'  You  have  a  keen  and  observant  eye,  my  darling.  Our 
minister  is  a  thoroughly  selfish  man.  I  have  watched 
him  keenly,  especially  since  I  feared  lest  he  should  rob 
me  of  yourself.  His  brother,  now,  whom  we  met  in 
Edinburgh,  is  a  very  different  sort.  Do  you  remember 
him?' 

Beatrice  smiled,  and  made  no  answer. 

Did  she  remember  him  ?  How  often  had  the  earnest 
face  of  James  Bethune  risen  up  before  her !  How  often 
had  she  recalled  his  grave,  heartfelt  words, — the  words  of 
a  man  to  whom  life  was  serious  and  true,  and  whose 
idea  of  its  mystery  and  meaning  was  wholly  noble !  Ay, 
she  remembered  him,  perhaps  too  well. 

'  There  is  another  thing,  Beatrice,  which  makes  me 
glad  that  you  have  not  accepted  him/  said  her  father 
presently.  '  I  am  told  he  was  engaged  for  a  number  of 


SHADOWED  LIVES.  217 

years — almost  since  boyhood,  I  believe — to  a  young  girl 
in  his  native  place.  They  say  that  since  he  succeeded 
in  life  he  has  become  ashamed  of  her.  Is  that  manly, 
Beatrice  ? ' 

'  No  ;  if  it  is  true,  it  is  cowardly  and  shameful,'  said 
Beatrice  with  flashing  eye.  '  Oh,  papa,  I  sometimes 
think  that  the  less  we  know  about  our  neighbours  the 
better.  There  is  so  much  which  hurts  and  jars  upon  us, 
and  of  course  it  must  be  the  same  with  those  who  know 
us.  We  do  not  always  do  our  duty,  even  though  we 
know  it.  If  I  had  cared  for  Mr.  Bethune,  that  would 
have  been  a  very  bitter  thing  to  know.' 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  broken  at  length  by  a 
sudden  gust  of  wind  and  the  rattle  of  hailstones  on  the 
panes. 

'  The  storm  is  rising,  surely,  papa.  It  was  a  lovely 
evening  when  I  looked  out  just  before  you  came  in  ! ' 
exclaimed  Beatrice. 

'  I  saw  the  north  clouds  spreading  over  the  sky  as  we 
drove  over  the  hill,'  answered  Mr.  Lorraine.  '  We  must 
look  for  storms  now,  I  suppose ;  winter  is  fairly  upon 
us.' 

'  Papa  ! '  The  girl's  voice  fell  almost  to  a  whisper, 
and  her  fingers  closed  over  his  with  a  pleading  touch. 
:  When  I  hear  the  wind  and  the  rain  raging  outside,  I 
cannot  sleep.  I  seem  to  see  Willie  always  a  miserable 
outcast,  with  no  shelter  to  go  to.  I  see  him  so  often  in 
my  thoughts  and  dreams,'  she  added  with  a  bursting  sob, 
4  that  I  think  it  must  be  true.  Has  he  not  been 
punished  enough,  papa  ?  Let  us  go  away  back  to 
London  and  seek  him  out.  I  am  sure  he  would  be  good 
now,  and  he  may  have  suffered,  we  do  not  know  how 
keenly.  I  feel  as  if  I  should  die  sometimes  living  here 
in  idle  affluence,  when  he  may  be  perishing  for  lack  of 

19 


218  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

the  necessaries  of  life.  Listen,  papa,'  she  continued 
when  he  would  have  interrupted  her  :  '  you  know  how 
difficult  it  is  even  for  the  deserving  to  get  work  in 
London  ;  what  chance  is  there  for  those  who  have  no 
character  or  recommendation  ?  Papa,  we  may  be  doing  a 
great  sin  in  thus  leaving  him,  perhaps  to  sink  into  deeper 
crime.' 

The  beautiful  face,  pale  in  its  passionate  pleading, 
the  yearning  eyes  fixed  on  his  face,  the  pleading  touch, 
might  have  moved  him  to  compassion  ;  but  his 
heart  was  steeled  against  the  boy  who  had  disgraced 
him,  and  he  would  not  listen.  The  tenderness  died 
out  of  his  face,  and  it  became  set  in  the  old  stern 
mould,  which,  as  a  child,  Beatrice  Lorraine  had  been 
wont  to  dread. 

'  No,  no  ;  he  deserves  it  all.  Whatever  he  may  suffer, 
he  deserves  it  all  He  will  never  suffer  as  I  have  done ; 
it  is  not  in  him ;  he  is  a  heartless,  selfish  boy,'  he  said, 
rising  to  his  feet,  as  if  to  escape  from  these  speaking  eyes 
and  that  pleading  tongue.  '  Beatrice,  how  often  have  1 
forbidden  this  subject  ?  Why  will  you  intrude  it  in  the 
few  moments  of  peace  and  happiness  I  enjoy  ? ' 

'  It  was  because  I  thought  your  heart  was  softened 
that  I  spoke,  papa,'  said  Beatrice  with  a  sob.  '  I  cannot 
promise  to  be  silent.  Something  makes  me  speak.  I 
believe  some  day  I  shall  go  away  myself  and  seek  him 
out.  I  do  not  think  it  right  to  let  him  sink.  Christ 
came  to  seek  and  to  save  the  lost.' 

Darker  still  grew  the  dark  brow  of  William  Lorraine, 
his  lips  twitched,  his  hands  nervously  .clenched  ;  his 
whole  appearance  was  that  of  a  man  labouring  under  the 
strongest  emotion.  He  seemed  about  to  speak,  but 
restrained  himself,  and  without  a  word  walked  slowly  out 
of  the  room. 


SHADOWED  LIVES.  210 

'  Christ  came  to  seek  and  to  save  the  lost.'  These 
words  rang  their  haunting  changes  in  his  ears  through 
the  long  hours  of  a  sleepless  night.  Beatrice  heard  him 
walking  to  and  fro  his  room,  and,  guessing  something  oi 
the  conflict  raging  in  his  heart,  prayed  that  he  might  be 
softened. 

She  was  early  down-stairs  next  morning,  anxious  to 
know  whether  these  prayers  were  to  have  the  answer  for 
which  she  longed.  But  the  moment  she  saw  her  father's 
face  her  hope  fell  ;  it  was  calm,  stern,  immovable,  and, 
though  he  spoke  to  her  kindly  and  affectionately  as  usual, 
she  felt  distant  from  him,  as  if  some  barrier  had  sprung 
up  between  them.  A  little  longer  yet  she  must  taste  tli3 
heart-sickness  of  hope  deferred. 

As  the  winter  wore  on,  a  feeling  of  dissatisfaction  with 
the  minister  began  to  get  abroad  in  the  church  of  Loch- 
broom.  His  sermons  were  neither  so  well  prepared  nor 
so  eloquently  delivered,  and  he  '  fell  away'  in  his  visita- 
tion and  other  outdoor  work.  A  lukewarrnness  crept  into 
the  pews,  and  the  pulpit  was  blamed  for  it.  The  people 
began  to  restrain  themselves  in  giving,  and  Lochbroom  no 
longer  enjoyed  the  reputation  it  had  gained  during  the 
earlier  days  of  Mr.  Bethune's  ministry,  of  being  one  of 
the  most  liberal  and  prosperous  parishes  in  the  south  of 
Scotland.  The  older  men  in  the  church  shook  their 
heads,  and  said  that  they  had  feared  the  result  of 
being  carried  away  by  flowery  eloquence  and  outward 
show,  and  that  they  were  not  surprised.  The  minister 
not  only  grew  careless  in  the  performance  of  his  duties, 
but  he  made  no  secret  of  his  desire  for  a  change ;  and 
was  a  great  deal  away  from  home,  preaching  on  trial  in 
vacant  kirks.  The  good  people  of  Lochbroom  were 
puzzled  to  account  for  all  this,  but  it  never  occurred  even 
to  the  busybodies  to  connect  the  change  in  their  minister 


220  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

with  a  woman,  least  of  all  with  .Miss  Lorraine.  The 
household  at  Nethercleugh  lived  in  such  seclusion  and 
retirement,  and  mingled  themselves  so  little  with  county 
folk  or  county  affairs,  that  there  was  very  little  to  be  said 
about  them.  Then  the  minister  wisely  made  no  change 
in  his  demeanour  towards  them,  neither  did  he  cease 
visiting  at  Nethercleugh,  as  many  in  the  circumstances 
would  have  done. 

James  Bethune  was  still  working  hard  in  Glasgow, 
and  had  never  been  able  to  spare  a  holiday  to  visit 
Lochbroom.  Letters  passed  occasionally  between  the 
brothers,  and,  as  Sandy  never  said  anything  about 
Beatrice  Lorraine,  Jamie  concluded  that  things  were  just 
as  they  had  been  a  year  ago,  and  he  had  an  occasional 
smile  over  his  brother's  dilatoriness  in  this  particular 
matter.  It  was  so  unlike  his  usual  rapid,  impulsive  way 
of  rushing  at  things,  and  getting  them  settled  one  way 
or  other  without  delay.  Very  steadily,  and  with  rapid 
strides  considering  all  things,  James  Bethune  cleared  his 
way  before  him,  and  gradually  approached  the  realiza- 
tion of  his  life-dream.  From  writing  occasional  bits  for 
the  weekly  issue  of  the  Glasgow  Journal,  he  was  promoted 
to  the  writing  of  leading  articles  for  the  daily  issue,  for 
which  his  clear,  concise  literary  style  was  peculiarly 
suited ;  and  it  did  the  Journal  good,  for  his  views  of  the 
burning  questions  of  the  day  were  wise,  moderate,  and 
liberal,  and  insensibly  his  articles  improved  the  tone  of 
the  paper.  Consequently  he  had  very  little  reporting 
work  to  do ;  for  his  employers  said  that  he  would  prove 
a  distinct  acquisition  to  them,  and  that  if  they  could 
retain  him  it  would  pay  them  to  give  him  every  en- 
couragement. He  still  devoted  part  of  his  scanty  leisure 
to  self  improvement  and  purely  literary  work,  but  what 
he  wrote  did  not  find  its  way  into  print,  but  was  locked 


SHADOWED  LIVES.  221 

in  his  desk  for  future  reference  or  use.  There  was  no 
need  for  him  to  write  just  because  his  wares  could  find 
a  market ;  he  hoped  the  time  would  come  when  he  would 
be  able  to  give  to  the  world  a  piece  of  literary  work 
which  would  be  worthy  to  be  read,  and  to  which  all 
these  little  bits  would  contribute.  He  studied  life  under 
the  many  aspects  the  great  city  offered,  he  invaded  its 
lowest  parts,  and  took  mental  portraits  of  its  denizens 
and  surioundings,  which  were  a  great  revelation  and  a 
vast  sorrow  to  him  too.  How  little  he  had  dreamed  of 
such  depths  of  destitution  and  crime  and  misery  in  the 
old  quiet  days  at  the  Star,  where  there  might  be  decent 
poverty,  but  nothing  so  debasing  and  terrible  as  he  found 
in  the  east  end  of  Glasgow !  The  state  of  the  masses 
became  a  problem  to  him  which  occupied  every  free 
moment  of  his  waking  hours,  and  became  the  haunting 
spectre  of  his  dreams. 

It  weighed  upon  his  heart,  he  took  things  still  so 
terribly  in  earnest,  but  it  seemed  to  be  a  hopeless,  in- 
solvable  problem,  for  when  could  one  man  hope  to  make 
any  difference  or  improvement  among  so  many  thousands? 
His  effort,  however  strenuous  and  well-directed,  would  be 
in  very  truth  only  a  drop  in  the  ocean.  He  lived  a  very 
isolated  -life  in  Glasgow,  for,  though  he  visited  occasion- 
ally at  his  employer's  abode,  and  also  at  the  residence  of 
his  minister,  he  had  found  no  second  manse  of  St.  Giles. 
The  memories  circling  round  that  dear  home  were  fresh 
and  beautiful  and  sweet,  shut  in  that  corner  of  his  heart 
to  which  he  came  when  weary  or  oppressed  with  heart- 
ache and  loneliness.  For  such  moments  came,  ay,  very 
often,  to  the  strong  man  wrestling  in  the  forefront  ol 
life's  battle;  he  had  still  many  a  bitter  yearning  after  the 
hidden  sweetness  involved  in  the  words  love  and  home. 
The  old  Star  home  yet  remained  unchanged  for  him  so 


222  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

far  as  Aunt  Susan  was  concerned,  but  she  was  growing  very 
old  and  very  frail,  though  she  would  not  admit  it.  But 
he  had  seen  the  change  when  he  went  over  at  the  New 
Year  holidays,  and  that,  too.  vexed  and  troubled  him,  for 
it  was  a  sad  sight  to  see  an  aged  person  alone,  with  none 
to  bestow  that  care  and  kindly  attention  which  age  so 
peculiarly  requires. 

It  was  the  early  summer  before  he  could  pay  a  second 
visit  to  the  Star,  and  then  it  was  only  to  convey  the 
news  of  a  great  change  about  to  take  place  in  his  life. 
Aunt  Susan  was  slowly  and  laboriously  hoeing  her  potato 
patch  one  June  evening,  thinking  of  him  as  usual,  and 
troubling  herself  because  his  weekly  letter  had  not  come 
that  morning,  when  Jamie  himself  came  down  the  Lang 
Raw,  and  swung  open  the  garden  gate.  She  could  not  see 
him,  of  course,  being  in  the  park  at  the  back  of  the  house, 
but  he  had  caught  sight  of  her  the  moment  he  readied 
the  top  of  the  Cunan  Hill  on  his  way  from  Markinch. 
His  keen,  far-reaching  eye  would  have  recognised  her 
tall  figure  and  her  red  and  yellow  sun  -  bonnet  at  a 
greater  distance.  He  stood  a  moment  just  inside  the 
garden  gate,  looking  at  the  little  flower-plots,  which  were 
quite  overgrown  with  yellow  hollyhocks  and  pink  and  white 
phloxes  and  garden  poppies.  It  was  a  curious  medley  of 
form  and  colour,  but  as  the  beds  of  thyme  and  clumps  of 
peppermint  and  balsam  sent  up  their  strong  perfume,  his 
heart  rilled  somehow  ;  these  very  odours  were  redolent 
of  memories  bitter  and  sweet.  He  turned  about,  and, 
lifting  the  sneck,  went  into  the  kitchen.  It  was  a  low- 
roofed,  close1  place  that  summer  evening,  filled  with  the 
smell  and  the  vapour  of  the  peat-reek.  How  quaint  and 
strange  it  all  looked, — the  primitive,  whitewashed  fireside 
with  the  bars  to  keep  in  the  peats ;  the  heavy,  old- 
fashioned  chairs ;  the  high,  narrow  box  beds ;  the  little 


SHADOWED  LIVES.  223 

deal  table ;  the  '  wag-at-the  wa','  whose  face  was  yellow 
with  age,  its  brilliant-hued  roses  dimmed  with  the  peat- 
reek  of  years.  It  was  strange,  and  yet  how  familiar  !  As 
James  Bethune  sat  down  in  his  father's  arm-chair,  it 
almost  seemed  as  if  the  last  two  years  of  his  life  were  a 
dream,  and  he  was  only  resting  after  a  day  at  the 
harrows  or  the  reaper,  he  felt  so  much  at  home.  He 
was  sitting  thus,  with  his  arms  folded  across  his  breast,  his 
face  wearing  a  far-off,  dreamy  look,  when  Aunt  Susan 
suddenly  appeared  on  the  scene. 

'Mercy  upon  us!'  she  exclaimed,  half  in  terror,  half  in 
surprise  at  sight  of  the  stranger  at  her  fireside. 

'  How  are  you,  Aunt  Susan  ?  Not  know  me,  eh  ?  It 
was  a  shame  to  come  upon  you  unawares,'  said  Jamie, 
jumping  up  and  gripping  both  her  hands.  Then,  to  his 
great  amazement,  she  burst  into  tears.  He  could  not 
but  feel  moved  at  that  sight,  for  when  had  he  seen  Aunt 
Susan  weep  ?  Surely  she  must  be  frailer  and  weaker  even 
than  he  had  dreamed. 

'  Wheesht,  auntie,'  he  said  tenderly,  and  guided  the 
faltering  steps  to  a  chair,  placing  her  in  it  very  gently, 
and  then  patting  her  shoulder  as  he  might  have  done  to 
a  child. 

'  Eh,  but  I'm  a  silly  cratur,'  she  said  presently,  looking 
up  at  him  with  a  smile.  '  But  my  heart's  been  a  kind  o' 
grit  a'  day,  because  yer  letter  didna  come.  Little  did  I 
ken  what  e'enin'  was  to  bring.  An'  hoo  are  ye,  my 
ain  bairn  ?  Hae  ye  gotten  yer  tea  ? ' 

It  was  comical  and  yet  pathetic  to  hear  her  call  the 
great  broad-shouldered  man  her  'ain  bairn,'  but  he  would 
always  be  that  to  her. 

'  Yes,  but  I'll  take  another  cup  wi'  you.  auntie,'  he 
said  cheerily.  '  I  can  tell  ye  I  was  mad  when  I  saw  ye 
frae  the  tap  o'  the  Cunan  Hill  wi'  a  hoe  in  yer  hand. 


224  TEE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

What  did  ye  promise  me  when  I  was  here  at  New  Year  ? 
I  aye  thocht  ye  a  woman  o'  yer  word.' 

It  came  very  naturally  to  him  to  speak  in  the  old 
Scotch  way,  and  Aunt  Susan  listened  as  if  it  was  the 
sweetest  music  she  had  ever  heard  in  her  life. 

'  Hoots,  I  wasna  daein'  muckle,  only  playin'  mysel',  an' 
the  tatties  are  gaun  ower's  a'  thegither.  Dauvit  Cam'll 
canna  win  at  them  or  Monday.  This  heat's  brocht 
a'thing  on  at  <aince.  Ye  needna  fash  yer  heid,  Jamie, 
my  man.  I'll  no'  hurt  mysel'  wi'  wark.  When  I  sit 
doon  wi'  niy  haunds  fauldit,  laddie,  I'll  just  fa'  in  like  a 
gysened  tub.  But  what's  brocht  ye  here  sae  sudden  ? 
Is't  yer  holidays,  or  what  ? ' 

'  No,  auntie,  there  are  not  going  to  be  many  holidays 
for  me  this  year,'  answered  Jamie.  '  I've  come  to  tell 
you  about  another  shift  I  am  going  to  make.' 

'  Anither  shift !  Tak'  care,  laddie  ;  ye  ken  the  rowin' 
stane  gethers  nae  moss.  Are  ye  for  awa'  frae  Glesca 
a'ready  ? ' 

'  It  is  to  be  a  change  for  the  better,  auntie,  and  it  has 
come  to  me  without  my  seeking.  I  have  got  the  offer  of 
a  situation  in  London,  and  I  thought  it  my  duty  to  accept 
it;  indeed,  it  was  a  very  gratifying  surprise.  Many  men 
have  worked  harder  and  longer  than  I  without  ever 
getting  such  a  chance.' 

.'  Tae  Lunnon  ! '  repeated  Aunt  Susan  slowly,  and  her 
poor  old  eyes  uplifted  themselves  to  the  face  of  her 
laddie  with  a  pathetic  wistfulness  which  nearly  broke 
him  down.  '  Aweel,  laddie,  ye  ken  best.  When  I  gied 
ye  up,  I  gied  ye  up,  an'  if  it's  for  yer  betterment,  I 
mauna  complain.  But  Lunnon's  a  faur  road,  an'  an  ill 
place  for  a  young  chield.  Ye'll  need  a'  yer  grace  to  guide 
ye  there,  Jamie.' 

'Aunt  Susan,  do  you  know  what  I  was  wondering,  as 


SHADOWED  LIVES.  225 

I  came  up  the  road  from  Markinch  ?  I  was  wondering 
whether  you  wouldn't  come  with  ma  I  could  get  a 
little  house  with  a  garden  a  little  way  out  of  London, 
and  we  might  be  very  comfortable  together.  Would  you 
not  think  it  over  ? ' 

Aunt  Susan  lifted  her  hands  in  sheer  horror  at  the 
thought. 

1  Me  gang  to  Lunnon !  Laddie,  ye  are  haverin'  noo. 
I've  never  sleepit  a  nicht  ooten  Fife  i'  my  life !  Hoo 
cud  ye  think  I  wad  live  in  Lunnon  ?  Na,  na ;  ye  maun 
gang  yer  way  yersel'  or  ye  get  a  wife,  an'  canty  wad  I 
be  to  see  the  day,  if  she  was  worthy  o'  ye.  No'  but 
what  I'm  prood  o'  yer  offer,  my  man;  an'  I'll  never  forget 
that  ye  was  wullint  tae  tak'  yer  auld  Star  auntie  wi'  ye ; 
but  I'll  dee  at  hame.  An'  if  ye  mind  me  as  weel  in 
Lunnon  as  ye've  mindit  me  in  Glesca,  I'll  hae  nae  reason 
to  complain.' 

'  I  am  loth  to  leave  you,  auntie.  It  is  hard  that  you 
should .  have  nobody  to  take  care  of  you  now  when  you 
need  it  most.' 

'  Dinna  you  fash  yer  thoomb  aboot  me,  Jamie.  I'm 
no'  ill  aff  as  lang's  Dauvit  an'  Jean  Cain'H's  at  the 
Knowe,'  said  Aunt  Susan  cheerfully.  '  An'  Mary's  a 
perfeck  godsend  to  me.  She  comes  doon  every  ither 
nicht  or  twa  wi'  her  stockiu'  or  her  seam.  Thon's  a 
jewel,  Jamie.  Sandy  stood  in  his  ain  licht  when  he 
slichted  her.' 

'  How  is  Mary  Campbell,  Aunt  Susan  ?  It  seems  a 
long  time  since  I  saw  her.' 

'  She's  weel  eneuch  in  body,  but  the  heart's  geyan  wac. 
The  cratur  kens,  I  think,  that  I  ken  what  she's  come 
through.  'Deed  I  telt  her  my  ain  auld  story,  laddie,  an', 
wad  ye  believe  it  ?  my  auld  heart  grows  grit  ower't  yet. 
Ay,  Sandy  Bethune  may  hae. a  graund  kirk  an'  a  braw 


226  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

manse,  an'  a  leddy  wife,  but  the  Lord  '11  mind  him  aboot 
Mary  Cam'll  maybe  when  he  least  expecks  it.  When 
did  ye  see  or  hear  frae  Sandy,  though  ? ' 

'  I  hear  from  him  whiles.  He  seems  to  be  gettin'  on 
fine ;  but  there  is  no  word  of  the  wife.  Does  he  ever 
write  to  you  ? ' 

'  No'  him.  He  sends  me  a  Dumfries  paper  whiles, 
if  there's  ony  blawin'  aboot  himsel'  or  his  kirk  in't.  But 
come  an'  tell  me  mair  aboot  yer  new  seetuation.  What 
is't  to  dae  ? ' 

'A  variety  of  things,  Aunt  Susan,'  answered  Jamie 
with  a  smile.  '  It's  to  the  office  of  the  St.  Paul's  Gazette 
I'm  going.  One  of  the  pioprietors  is  a  brother-in-law  of 
Mr.  Maclean,  my  present  master.  I  think  he  must  have 
spoken  to  him  about  me.  I  am  to  report,  if  necessary, 
and  to  write  articles  for  the  paper.  In  fact,  I  think 
I'm  to  be  a  kind  of  sub-editur.' 

'  An'  what  kind  o'  wage  do  they  gie  ye  for  a'  that  ? ' 

'  Two  hundred  pounds,  and  extra  pay  for  extra  work. 
It  isn't  a  great  salary,  but  the  opening  itself  is  worth  a 
small  fortune  to  mo.  London  is  the  place  for  a  literary 
man.' 

'  Ay,  maybe.  I  dinna  understand  thae  things.  It's 
just  extraordinar'  to  hear  ye,  laddie,  when  no'  twa  year 
syne  ye  were  workin'  at  the  land  an'  the  loom.  Ye  hae 
stuck  in  weel.' 

'  No  man  can  say  I  have  not  wrought  hard,  at  any 
rate.  I've  taken  it  out  of  myself  this  winter.  Don't 
you  see  how  thin  I  am  ? ' 

'  Ay,  ye  are  no'  fat ;  but  ye're  a  gentlemanlike  chap, 
my  man,'  said  Aunt  Susan  with  great  pride.  '  Sandy  '11 
no'  can  haud  a  caun'le  till  ye  noo.  An'  when  are  ye 
gaun  awa'  to  Lunnon  ? ' 

'  On  Friday  night.     They  are  in  desperation  for  a  man 


SHADOWED  LIVES.  227 

to  come  at  once.  The  one  whose  place  I  am  to  fill  died 
suddenly,  and  they  had  no  one  ready.  So  I'm  going 
south  to  Lochbroom  to-morrow,  and  I'll  get  the  London 
train  at  Lockerbie  on  Saturday  morning.' 

'  Od,  ye  speak  aboot  fleein'  to  Limnon  as  if  it  was 
naething  ava'.  I  wush  Star  folk  heard  ye.  Yell  be 
gaun  to  bide  the  morn's  nicht  wi'  Sandy,'  said  Aunt 
Susan,  and  just  then  the  door  was  softly  opened,  and 
who  should  come  in  but  Mary  Campbell,  with  her 
stocking  in  her  hand.  She  started  at  sight  of  the 
stranger,  but  a  bright  smile  overspread  her  sweet  face 
when  she  recognised  him  as  Jamie  Bethune.  He  sprang 
up,  and  took  her  hand  in  his  warm,  kindly  clasp ;  but 
somehow  he  could  think  of  nothing  to  say,  for  there  was 
a  change  in  her  which  made  a  strange,  bitter  feeling 
against  his  brother  rise  in  his  breast. 

'  Ye  wasna  expectin'  Jamie,  surely,  auntie,'  she  said, 
and  the  colour  receded  from  her  face  and  left  it  as  pale 
as  the  collar  at  her  throat.  '  No,  I'll  no'  sit ;  ye  maun 
hae  a  lot  to  say.  "VVull  ye  can  gie  a  look  up-by  this 
time,  Jamie  ? ' 

'  I'll  try,  Mary,'  answered  Jamie,  and  for  the  life  of 
him  he  could  say  no  more. 

His  aunt  had  said  Mary  was  well  in  body,  but  her 
looks  belied  the  words.  She  seemed  smaller  and  more 
fragile,  as  if  she  had  crept  down,  and  her  face  was  thin 
and  worn ;  its  ruddy  bloom  and  sweet  round  fulness  had 
both  disappeared.  The  bright,  bonnie  eyes  were  deep 
and  sad-looking,  the  sorrow  of  a  life  was  plainly  written 
in  their  depths.  And  this  was  Sandy's  doing!  How 
could  he  prosper,  how  could  any  blessing  ever  rest  on 
himself  or  his  work  ? 

'  He's  only  come  to  bid  us  a'  guid-bye,  Mary.  He's 
for  Lunnon  noo,'  said  Aunt  Susan.  '  Weel,  if  ye're  for 


228  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

awa',   I'll  set  him  up  by   an'  by  to  gie  ye  the   news. 
We're  jist  in  the  middle  o'  oor  crack.' 

Mary  nodded  and  slipped  away.  She  was  glad  to  go, 
for  when  she  got  to  the  door  her  eyes  were  wet  with 
tears,  brought  there  by  the  look  of  deep  sympathy  in 
James  Bethune's  eyes.  She  could  hide  her  pain  from 
the  world,  but  scarcely  from  those  who  loved  her,  and 
there  was  more  than  one  heart  in  the  Star  who  hoped  a 
day  of  reckoning  would  come  for  the  minister  of  Ix>ch- 
broom. 


CHAPTEE    XVII. 


bWEET    MOMENTS. 

'0  Love,  so  hallowing  every  soil 

Which  gives  thy  sweet  llower  room, 
"Wherever  nursed  by  ease  or  toil 
The  human  heart  takes  bloona.' 

W  HITHER. 

GENTLEMAN  to  see  you,  sir.     I  have  just 
brought  him  in.' 

So  said  the  housekeeper  at  the  manse  of 
Lochbroom,  opening   the   study   door  on  a 
Friday  afternoon,  just  as  the  minister  had  got 
to  the  third  head  of  his  discourse.     He  rose 
with  a  quick  gesture  of  annoyance,  and  turned 
inquiringly  to  the  door. 

'  Bless  me,  Jamie,  is  it  you  ? ' 

'Yes,  it's  me.  Have  I  interrupted  your  meditations? 
because  I  can  go  out  for  a  walk  till  you  are  ready  to 
speak  to  me,'  said  James  Bethune  with  a  smile. 

'  Not  likely.     Come  in.     Man,  I'm  glad  to  see  you  ! ' 
Not  for  many  years  had  James  Bethune  heard  Sandy 
speak  in  such  a  tone.     The  look  and  the  warm,  fervent 

223 


230  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

grip  said  more  forcibly  than  his  words  that  he  was  glad 
to  see  him.  Was  Sandy  being  taught  by  slow  degrees 
that  the  ties  of  kinship  are  sweeter  than  any  on  earth, 
and  that  no  other  love  can  so  well  stand  the  test  of  time 
and  of  adversity  ? 

'Why  didn't  you  send  word,  and  I'd  have  had  my 
sermon  written  and  been  at  the  station  meeting  you  ? ' 

'  I  couldn't,  because  I  didn't  know  myself.  I've 
come  from  Fife  to-day.' 

'  From  Star  ?  Then  you  are  having  your  holi- 
days ? ' 

'  No,  I'm  on  my  way  to  London  ;  but  if  you'll  give 
me  something  to  eat  I'll  speak  better.  I  have  had 
nothing  since  Aunt  Susan  gave  me  a  seven  o'clock 
breakfast.' 

'  You're  just  in  time  ;  my  dinner  will  be  served  in 
about  ten  minutes.  Can  you  wait  ? ' 

'  Oh,  of  course;  I'm  not  just  famishing,'  answered  Jamie, 
walking  over  to  the  window,  and  looking  down  the 
village  street,  and  then  across  the  fertile  landscape  to 
the  blue  ridges  of  the  Lanark  hills.  '  You  have  a  lovely 
spot  here.' 

'Do  you  think  so?  I'm  sick  of  the  place  myself. 
But  come,  tell  me  about  yourself.  I'm  consumed  with 
curiosity.' 

'  Which,  I  suppose,  I  must  satisfy,'  said  Jamie  with  a 
smile,  and,  sitting  down  in  the  window,  he  briefly 
recounted  to  his  brother  the  circumstances  of  the  change 
he  was  about  to  make. 

'  Man,  you're  a  lucky  fellow.  You  are  going  to  beat 
me  altogether,  —  a  clear  case  of  the  hare  and  the 
tortoise,'  said  the  minister  with  a  half  sigh.  '  I  suppose 
you  won't  be  content  till  you  get  to  the  top  of  the 
tree  now.' 


SWEET  MOMENTS.  231 

'  I'll  certainly  climb  as  high  as  I  can.  I'm  going  to 
write  a  book  after  I  get  to  London,  Sandy.  It  will 
either  be  the  making  or  the  marring  of  me.' 

'  It'll  be  the  making,  no  doubt.  I  know  now  it  is  in 
you.  I  say,  Jamie,  I  sometimes  wonder  why  you  didn't 
kick  me  in  the  old  days.  What  a  conceited  ass  I 
was !' 

'  I  knew  you  would  gather  sense,'  laughed  Jamie,  out 
of  the  gladness  of  his  heart.  '  But  how  are  you  getting 
on  yourself  ?  I  fancy  you  look  rather  out  of  sorts.' 

'  So  I  am.     I'm  about  tired  of  the  thing,  Jamie/ 

'What  thing?' 

'  This,'  he  said  with  a  comprehensive  wave  of  his 
hand.  '  I'm  losing  influence  in  the  place  ;  the  church  is 
falling  off;  and,  in  short,  it's  time  I  had  a  change.  I 
wish  I  was  anything  but  a  minister.' 

James  Beth  line  sat  silent  a  moment,  and  a  grave, 
troubled  look  came  into  his  face. 

'  I  don't  like  to  hear  you  say  that,  Sandy.  It  is  a 
noble  profession,  the  noblest,  I  think,  if  it  is  undertaken 
with  a  right  heart.  You  ' — 

'  That's  where  it  is  !  I  haven't  the  right  heart,  you  see,' 
interrupted  Sandy  almost  passionately.  '  Men,  if  you 
knew  how  I  hate  and  despise  myself,  standing  up  there 
Sunday  after  Sunday  making  a  hypocrite  of  myself, — for 
it  is  nothing  else ! — telling  people  what  their  duty  is, 
trying  to  fit  them  for  the  kingdom  of  heaven,  when 
I'm  further  off  from  it  than  the  worst  sinner  among 
them.' 

James  Bethune  sat  round  in  his  chair  and  lookrd 
with  deep  anxiety  into  his  brother's  face.  It  wore  an 
expression  of  settled  gloom,  his  eye  gleamed  with  a 
strange  bitterness,  his  whole  appearance  was  that  of  a 
man  at  war  with  himself  and  the  world. 


232  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

1  Let  me  say  my  say.  It'll  do  me  good.  I've  to  keep 
so  quiet  here,  and  go  about  so  smoothly  and  circum- 
spectly to  keep  up  my  dignity,  you  know,  and  otherwise 
deceive  the  world,'  he  said,  as  if  in  very  scorn  of 
himself.  'Don't  look  at  me  with  such  pitying  eyes. 
I  don't  deserve  your  pity,  for  I  have  wronged  even  you, 
who  have  always  been  ten  thousand  times  better  to  rne 
than  I  deserve.  Haven't  I  laughed  at  and  despised  you 
and  tried  to  keep  you  down  all  my  life  ?  But  I've  done 
more  than  that.  Uncle  Peter  charged  me  on  his  death- 
bed to  share  his  money  with  you ;  and  did  I  do  it  ? 
No ;  I  let  them  prove  the  written  will  and  took  it  all, 
and  yet  you  never  grumbled,  but  only  rejoiced  in  my 
good  luck.  Did  you  know  that  that  was  the  surest  and 
the  keenest  way  to  punish  me  ?  Man,  the  memory  of 
all  your  goodness  has  been  like  a  fierce  scorpion  stinging 
me  night  and  day.  You ' — 

James  Bethune  rose  from  his  chair ;  he  laid  his  firm, 
gentle  hand  on  his  brother's  shoulder,  and  looked  him 
full  in  the  face. 

'  Sandy,  if  you  don't  hold  your  tongue  I'll  go  away  out 
of  the  house  this  very  minute,  and  you'll  never  see  me 
again.  You  have  worked  yourself  into  such  a  state  of 
excitement  that  I'm  afraid  to  see  you.  What  are  you 
talking  about  ?  Aren't  you  making  mountains  out 
of  molehills  ?  What  do  I  care  for  Uncle  Peter's  money  ? 
Don't  let's  have  another  word.  Isn't  that  the  dinner- 
bell  ?  Am  I  to  get  anything  to  eat,  or  am  I  not  ? ' 

His  bantering  words  provoked  a  trembling  smile  on 
Sandy's  lips,  but  it  passed,  and  unwonted  tears  stood 
in  his  eyes.  Then  their  hands  met  in  a  grip  which 
hurt,  and  they  looked  into  each  other's  eyes  with 
a  long  look  which  revealed  to  each  the  other's 
heart. 


SWEET  MOMENTS.  233 

*  We're  chums  again,  aren't  we  ? '  said  Jamie  cheerily 
and  his  broad  hand  fell  with  a  hearty  clap  on  his 
brother's  back.  '  We'll  have  a  quiet  crack  ower  auld 
lang  syne  over  our  pipes  to-night ;  did  you  know  I  had 
learned  to  smoke  ?  There's  that  woman  ringing  the  bell 
again  ! ' 

'  Well,  I  suppose  we  had  better  go,  as  you  are  so 
hungry,  but  I'd  rather  finish  the  crack  just  now,'  said 
the  minister,  as  he  opened  the  study  door  and  led  the 
way  to  the  dining-room. 

'  I  think  you  are  a  little  dyspeptic,  Sandy,'  said  James 
Bethune  jokingly,  as  he  noticed  how  very  little  his 
brother  ate.  '  I  believe  you  need  a  change  of  some  sort. 
Couldn't  you  get  some  one  to  fill  your  place  for  a 
Sunday  or  two,  and  come  away  up  to  London  with  me  ? 
I'll  be  lonely  enough  anyway  till  I  get  shaken  down  into 
my  new  place.' 

'  I  couldn't  get  away  just  now.  You  see  I've  been 
absent  from  my  own  pulpit  a  good  few  Sabbaths  lately, 
preaching  on  trial  in  vacant  churches.  They'll  begin  to 
grumble,  —  indeed,  they  are  grumbling  already.  Adam 
Gray,  my  beadle,  gives  me  many  a  hint,  honest  man, 
thinking  that  a  quiet  word  from  him  may  induce  me  to 
mend  my  ways,  and  look  better  after  the  parish.' 

'  Well,  the  first  holiday  I  get  we  must  have  a  run 
on  the  Continent  together,'  said  Jamie  cheerily.  *  You 
mustn't  get  down-hearted.  Don't  I  know  all  about  what 
it  is  to  feel  one's  self  falling  behind  ?  Man,  when  I  look 
back  on  yon  dreary  six  months  in  Edinburgh,  I  wonder 
now  I  ever  held  out.  We  have  all  these  bits  of  worry 
to  try  us,  just  to  show  what  grit  is  in  us,  I  think.  By 
the  bye,  is  there  no  word  of  a  wife  to  the  manse  yet  ? ' 
asked  Jamie  carelessly,  but  he  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  his 
plate,  and  did  not  look  at  his  brother's  face.  I  think  he 
20 


234  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

knew  very  well  what  the  answer  would  be,  for  it  had 
just  Hashed  upon  him  all  at  once,  that  Beatrice  Lorraine 
might  have  something  to  do  with  Sanely's  distaste  of 
Lochbroom  and  weariness  of  life  in  general. 

'  There  will  never  be  a  wife  in  the  manse  of  Loch- 
broom  so  long  as  I  am  in  it,'  said  Sandy  quietly.  After 
a  moment  Jamie  raised  his  head  and  looked  at  his 
brother. 

'  Then  she  said  no  ? ' 

'  Yes,  she  said  no.' 

Sandy  pushed  aside  his  unfinished  dessert,  and,  rising 
from  the  table,  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room. 

'  What  fools  women  can  make  of  us,  can't  they  ? ' 
he  asked  with  extreme  bitterness.  '  I  despise  myself 
for  being  so  affected  by  a  woman's  word,  but  I  can't 
help  it.  I  don't  expect  you  to  understand  or  sympathize 
with  me.  You  are  lucky  in  this,  as  in  other  things. 
I  tell  you,  whenever  a  woman  comes  in  between  you  and 
your  work,  you'll  stand  still  for  a  while/ 

'  But  you  are  not  going  to  stand  still  altogether 
because  one  woman  in  the  world  won't  have  you,'  said 
Jamie.  '  You'll  soon  get  over  it.  You  never  used  to 
let  anything  bother  you  for  a  long  time.' 

'It  is  easy  for  you  to  speak,'  said  Sandy  quietly. 
'  You  needn't  wonder  now  that  I  would  like  a  change. 
You  can  understand  what  it  must  be  for  me  to  see  her 
so  often  as  I  do.  Fortunately  not  a  soul  in  the  parish 
has  a  suspicion  that  such  a  thing  has  ever  happened. 
Of  course  she  is  not  a  woman  to  boast  of  her  conquests, 
as  I  am  told  some  do.' 

'  No,  I  should  say  not,'  answered  Jamie,  for  somehow 
his  thoughts  had  flown  back  to  that  evening  at  the 
manse  of  St.  Giles,  and  its  undying  memories  rose  up 
•  ividly  before  him. 


SWEET  MOMENTS.  235 

'  Do  you  know,  I  often  wish  I  had  never  been  educated 
for  the  Church,'  said  Sandy  presently.  '  I  would  have 
been  a  better  and  a  happier  man  living  in  the  Star  all 
my  days  with  Mary  Campbell  as  my  wife.  Mind,  I  don't 
grumble  at  what  has  happened  to  me  through  Beatrice 
Lorraine.  It  is  a  just  punishment  for  my  treatment  of 
Mary.  Poor  girl !  I  often  think  of  her.  What  a  sweet, 
humble,  forgiving  nature  she  had!  I  don't  believe  she 
could  entertain  a  hard  thought,  even  of  me.' 

'  You  are  right.  We  have  not  known  many  women 
in  our  lives,  Sandy,  but  they  have  been  all  good.  We 
ought  to  reverence  womanhood  for  their  sakes,'  said 
Jamie  musingly.  'Do  you  know  I  am  full  of  hope 
for  you.  I  think  you  are  just  beginning  to  get  a 
glimpse  of  life's  meanings.  You  will  do  a  good  work 
yet  in  the  world.' 

Sandy  shook  his  head. 

'  I  don't  see  how  you  can  make  that  out.  You  know 
what  my  life  has  been.  I  have  built  from  the  beginning 
on  a  false  foundation.  How  can  I  ever  undo  all  I  have 
done  ? ' 

'  Don't  you  remember  Tennyson's  lines  : — 

"  That  men  may  rise  on  stepping-stones 
Of  their  dead  selves  to  higher  things"? 

They  are  true,  I  think,  of  us  all.  Life  is  just  a  series 
of  fallings  and  risings,  but  if  we  do  the  best  we  can,  we 
will  be  very  mercifully  judged.' 

'  I  believe  God  sent  you  to  me  to-day,  Jamie,'  said 
the  minister,  pausing  by  his  brother's  chair  and  touching 
his  shoulder  with  a  grateful,  lingering  hand.  '  You  have 
done  me  great  good  already.  I  don't  deserve  that  you 
should  even  take  the  trouble  to  be  interested  in  my 
welfare.' 


236  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

'  Wheesht,  man  !  Aren't  you  my  brother  ?  It's  just 
like  the  old  Star  days  come  back.  Do  you  remember 
how  we  used  to  fight  each  other's  battles  when  we  were 
at  the  school  ? ' 

James  Bethune  spoke  cheerily,  with  a  smile  on  his 
lips,  but  he  was  very  deeply  moved.  His  heart  yearned 
over  his  brother,  and  he  forgot  everything  but  that  he 
was  his  brother,  his  only  near  kin  upon  the  face  of  the 
earth.  It  is  a  beautiful  and  a  touching  thing  in  our 
natures,  that  love  can  thus  smooth  away  all  barriers, 
and  lay  a  healing  finger  even  on  the  sorest  places,  and 
take  the  sting  even  out  of  very  bitter  memory.  An 
unselfish  heart  so  soon  forgets  what  has  selfishly  wounded 
it,  and  is  ever  ready  to  give  love  for  love.  But  in 
this  it  has  its  own  deep  fulness  of  joy  which  none  else 
can  share. 

'  Suppose  we  go  out  and  have  a  look  about  us  now,' 
.ae  said  presently.  '  We  have  had  enough  dolorous  talk. 
We'll  look  ahead  now  and  picture  for  ourselves  a  bright 
future.  There's  no  harm  in  castle-building,  and  it  helps 
us  over  the  stony  places  in  our  daily  toil.  Pulling  a 
long  face  over  a  trouble  never  mended  it  in  this  world, 
and  never  will.' 

His  sunshine  was  irresistible,  and  a  glimmer  of  the 
old  smile  dawned  on  the  minister's  face.  So  they  went 
away  out  arm-in-arm  together,  just  like  playmates, 
talking  over  their  early  days,  Jamie  making  a  point  of 
calling  to  his  brother's  recollection  every  wild  escapade 
and  comical  episode  of  the  old  Star  life. 

'  Where  does  Nethercleugh  lie  ? '  he  asked  when  they 
had  climbed  the  inner  stair  of  the  church  steeple  to  get 
a  view  of  the  surrounding  country. 

'  That's  it  down  among  the  trees.  You  can  just  see 
the  gables  above  chestnut  tops.  It  is  a  beautiful  place.' 


SWEET  MOMENTS.        .  237 

'  It  seems  to  be.  I'd  like  to  go  up  there  to-night, 
Sandy.  If  you  don't  like  to  come,  I  wouldn't  be  very 
long  away.' 

'  Oh,  but  I  will  come.  I'm  not  such  a  coward  as  all 
that.  I  have  never  made  any  difference,  and  have  visited 
them  just  as  regularly.  It's  the  only  way  to  keep  the 
village  tongue  from  wagging.  Shall  we  go  now  then  ? 
They  dine  at  five  when  they  are  alone,  and  we'll  be  in 
time  to  get  a  cup  of  tea  from  Miss  Lorraine.' 

'  Yes,  I'm  quite  ready.  I  suppose  they  live  very 
quietly.' 

'  Very.  They  mix  with  none  of  the  society  of  the 
countryside.  That  son  who  went  wrong  has  cast  a 
shadow  over  their  whole  lives.' 

'  Minnie  Kinross  told  me  something  about  her  cousin 
Willie,  as  she  called  him,  and  Miss  Lorraine  herself 
spoke  of  their  sorrow,'  said  James  Bethune  as  they 
turned  to  go.  '  How  did  he  go  wrong  ?  Was  it  drink  ?' 

'  I  don't  think  so.  I  rather  think  he  appropriated 
some  money  which  wasn't  his  own.  But  I  really  cannot 
speak  with  any  certainty,  for  nobody  seems  to  know 
the  right  way  of  it.  The  father  is  a  terribly  proud  man, 
and  he  has  never  got  over  it.  That's  what  made  him 
retire  from  business  at  the  prime  of  life.  It  happened 
in  London.' 

'  They  have  everything  that  the  world  can  give,  I 
suppose,  but  the  skeleton  is  in  the  cupboard.  Every  one 
has  something  of  the  sort.  I  have  never  met  with  any 
exception  to  the  rule.' 

'  "  Man  is  born  unto  trouble,  as  the  sparks  fly  upward,"  ' 
quoted  the  minister.  '  That  is  my  text  for  the  Sabbath 
day.' 

'  A  dolorous  one ;  but  you  can  make  it  carry  a 
glorious  message  of  hope  if  you  like,'  answered  Jamie. 


238  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

'  How  do  we  go  now  ?  Through  the  woods  ?  I  am  glad 
of  that ;  the  roads  are  very  dusty  to-day.' 

'  Yes,  we  need  a  shower ;  see,  the  very  leaves  are 
drooping.  What  a  stillness  is  in  the  air !  I  believe  we 
shall  have  thunder  before  morning.' 

They  talked  much  as  they  walked,  chiefly  of  old  days 
and  early  associations,  which  were  now  very  precious 
to  them  both.  Strange  how  what  we  thought  homely 
and  uninteresting  when  it  was  beside  us  becomes  so 
dear  and  beautiful  when  seen  through  the  veil  of  distance  ! 
Memory  carries  sometimes  a  magic  wand. 

Sandy  could  scarcely  understand  his  brother's  deep 
love  and  appreciation  of  Aunt  Susan ;  he  had  never  been 
able  to  penetrate  beneath  the  surface,  and  reach  the 
wealth  of  love  and  unselfish  care  in  her  heart.  He  had 
only  known  the  rugged  exterior,  which  had  not  greatly 
recommended  itself  to  him ;  he  had,  indeed,  thought  her 
coarse  and  rude,  and  altogether  presumptuous  in  her 
dealing  with  him.  Aunt  Susan  had  indeed  two  person- 
alities, one  of  which  had  never  been  revealed  to  Sandy. 
She  had  closed  her  heart  against  him  soon  after  he  left 
his  father's  house,  and  had  never  seen  fit  to  open  it 
again.  There  was  nobody  in  the  world  had  taken  a 
more  shrewd  and  correct  estimate  of  him  than  his  aunt, 
and  her  opinion  of  him  was  not  very  high.  Perhaps 
she  was  a  trifle  harsh  in  her  judgment,  the  fault  of  her 
strong,  decided  nature,  which  did  not  admit  of  a  medium 
in  many  things.  Well  or  ill  was  her  course ;  there  was 
no  middle  state.  But  their  pleasant  talk,  which,  how- 
ever, was  not  without  its  sting  for  the  minister,  brought 
them  at  last  to  Nethercleugh,  and  then  James  Bethune 
relapsed  into  silence.  This  was  her  home  !  How  often 
he  had  tried  to  picture  it,  yet  how  different  the  reality  ! 
It  was  in  the  prime  of  its  beauty  now,  with  the  summer 


MOMENTS.  239 

leaves  upon  the  fine  old  trees  and  the  summer  freshness 
over  the  smooth  green  turf. 

'  It  is  a  grand  house,  Sandy.  I  had  no  idea  it  would 
be  so  grand.' 

'  Yes,  it  is  a  fine  place.  There  is  Mr.  Lorraine-  at  the 
drawing-room  window.  I  think  he  sees  us.' 

James  Bethune  was  conscious  that  his  heart  beat  a 
little  faster  as  they  mounted  the  steps  to  the  door,  and 
he  forgot  to  look  at  Sandy,  who  doubtless  must  feel 
keei^y  when  he  entered  here. 

The  maid  who  admitted  them  smiled  in  response  to 
the  minister's  kindly  greeting,  and  at  once  ushered  them 
to  the  drawing-room.  The  scent  of  mignonette  and  roses 
greeted  them  on  the  threshold ;  the  room  was  a  cool, 
shady,  fragrant  place — a  pleasant  retreat  from  the  sultri- 
ness without. 

'  So  you  have  really  come  at  last ! '  said  the  deep,  rich 
voice  of  the  master  of  Nethercleugh,  and  he  greeted 
James  Bethune  with  a  heartiness  there  was  no  mistaking. 
He  was  really  glad  to  see  him. 

'  I  have  not  lost  time.  Mr.  Lorraine ;  I  only  arrived 
an  hour  or  two  ago/  said  James  Bethune  with  his  rare 
smile ;  then  he  turned  to  Beatrice,  who  had  risen  from 
her  chair.  She  was  speaking  to  his  brother,  and,  during 
the  brief  second  ere  she  turned  to  him,  his  eyes  took  in 
her  whole  appearance  with  a  yearning,  almost  hungering 
look,  such  as  we  bestow  on  what  is  unspeakably  dear. 
She  was  not  in  any  way  changed,  save  that  her  white 
dress  seemed  to  make  her  look  younger  and  more  girlish. 
How  beautiful  she  was !  the  thoughtful  face,  wiih  its 
sweet,  womanly  mouth,  and  deep,  lustrous  eyes,  matching 
the  sweet  violets  at  her  throat  and  in  the  belt  about  her 
waist.  She  stood  in  the  slanting  sunlight,  which  had 
crept  round  to  the  front  windows ;  a  broad  line  of  light 


240  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

lay  upon  her  golden  head,  making  yet  more  wondrous 
the  sheen  of  the  coronet  of  hair  above  her  brow. 

'  How  are  you,  Mr.  Bethune  ?  I  bid  you  welcome  to 
Nethercleugh,'  she  said  at  length,  turning  to  him.  Her 
eyes  met  his,  and  a  faint  colour  stole  unawares  to  her 
cheek.  Surely  his  earnest  look  had  stirred  her  heart. 
He  took  the  slim  white  hand  one  moment  in  his  own, 
and  felt  it  thrill  him  through  and  through.  He  thanked 
her  for  the  word  of  welcome,  and  then  sat  down  beside 
Mr.  Lorraine,  full  of  wonder  at  himself.  What  did  this 
mean  ?  Why  should  his  pulses  beat,  the  blood  rush 
more  quickly  in  his  veins  ?  Why  should  he  feel  so 
yearningly  happy  in  the  presence  of  this  woman?  Could 
it  be  that  the  love  of  which  he  had  heard  and  read  had 
come  to  him  at  last,  bringing  to  him  only  its  heritage  of 
pain,  for  in  such  love  there  could  be  no  hope  for  him  ? 
He  felt  like  a  man  in  a  dream.  To  outward  seeming  he 
was  calm  and  self-possessed,  looking  at  his  ease  as  a 
gentleman  should ;  he  even  spoke  and  answered  intel- 
ligently, but  he  felt  like  a  man  in  a  dream.  He  saw 
the  graceful  figure  at  the  tea-table,  the  white,  beautiful 
hands  touching  the  delicate  china ;  he  caught  every 
varying  expression  in  that  exquisite  face,  every  sweet 
intonation  of  her  voice.  He  took  his  cup  of  tea  from 
her  hands,  and  thanked  her  with  earnest  eyes  dwelling 
on  her  face  as  if  craving  a  look  in  return,  but  she  did 
not  give  it.  One  watching  closely  would  have  observed 
a  fluttering  nervousness  in  her  movements,  as  if  some 
r.gitating  element  had  crept  into  her  thoughts.  Could 
it  be  that  in  her  heart  there  was  any  answering 
chord  ? 

She  did  not  speak  at  all,  only  listened  with  deepest 
interest,  while  James  Bethune  acquainted  her  father  with 
the  change  in  his  prospects.  Mr.  Lorraine  seemed  much 


SWEET  MOMENTS.  241 

pleased  to  hear  of  it;  his  eyes  dwelt  with  keen  and 
cordial  interest  on  the  young  man's  fine  face,  and  he 
nodded  occasionally  while  he  was  speaking,  as  if  to 
indicate  his  satisfaction. 

'  You'll  succeed,  I  know.  We  will  be  expecting  to 
hear  great  things  of  you  by  and  by,'  he  said  heartily. 
'  London  is,  beyond  a  doubt,  the  place  for  you.  You 
will  find  there  all  you  need.  It  will  be  a  great  revelation 
to  you.  Well,  Beatrice,  my  dear,  if  the  gentlemen  have 
had  sufficient  tea,  we  might  go  out  of  doors  a  little. 
The  air  of  this  room,  in  spite  of  the  open  windows,  is 
very  stifling.' 

'  I  am  ready,  papa,'  said  Beatrice  at  once.  '  If  you 
will  just  go  down-stairs,  I  will  join  you  in  a  minute.' 

The  minister  opened  the  door  for  her,  and  as  she 
passed  out  Jamie  looked  at  him  curiously,  recollecting 
for  the  first  time  what  had  passed  between  him  and 
Beatrice  Lorraine.  He  could  not  but  admire  his  perfect 
self-control,  his  gentlemanly  ease  and  calmness  of  deport- 
ment. Whatever  he  may  have  felt,  he  hid  it  well  None 
could  have  detected  that  he  regarded  the  daughter  of  the 
house  in  anything  but  an  indifferent  light.  The  way  in 
which  he  had  accepted  his  refusal  had  gained  for  him 
the  respect  of  both  father  and  daughter,  and  he  was 
made  more  wel.ooe  than  before  at  Nethercleugh. 

*  You  can  wait  for  my  daughter,  Mr.  James,'  said  Mr. 
Lorraine  when  the  trio  stepped  out  into  the  sultry  air. 
'  Come,  Mr.  Bethune,  you  are  the  very  man  I  wanted  to 
see.  What  do  you  think  of  the  new  water  scheme  for 
Lochbroom  ? ' 

So  saying,  he  took  the  minister  by  the  arm  and  led 
him  away  in  the  direction  of  the  shrubbery.  They  were 
quite  out  of  sight  before  Beatrice  appeared.  She  had 
thrown  a  lace  wrap  about  her  head  and  shoulders,  which 

21 


242  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

made  a  delicate  and  becoming  frame  for  her  fair  face. 
'  Are  you  all  alone  ? '  she  asked  with  a  swift,  bright 
smile.  '  I  am  sorry  if  I  have  kept  you  waiting.  "Where 
have  the  others  gone  ? ' 

'  Along  that  path.     Shall  we  follow  ? ' 

'  I  suppose  so.  It  is  a  lovely  walk,  a  continuation  of 
the  path  from  Lochbroom.  Of  course  you  do  not 
know  it  ? ' 

'No,  I  do  not  know  it,'  answered  James  Bethune, 
turning  to  walk  by  her  side. 

'So  you  are  going  to  make  your  home  in  London 
now,'  she  said,  for  the  silence  was  strangely  embar- 
rassing to  her.  '  Are  you  looking  forward  to  it  with 
great  hope  ?  * 

'  Yes ;  I  ought  to  be  pleased,  for  it  is  what  I  have 
wished  for  long.  Few  are  so  fortunate  as  I  have 
been.' 

'  One  so  much  in  earnest  deserves  such  reward,  I 
think/  she  said  with  an  upward  glance,  half  smiling,  half 
serious.  " 

'  You  speak  kindly.  I  do  not  know  that  I  can  lay 
claim  to  being  so  much  in  earnest.  I  know  many  who 
work  as  hard,  and  who  need  it  more  perhaps,  yet  who  do 
not  seem  to  make  any  headway  in  life.' 

'  That  is  sad.  There  are  so  many  such  things  in  the 
world.  I  am  weighed  down  sometimes  thinking  what 
struggles  some  have,  what  battles  to  fight,  what  burdens 
to  carry.  I  fear  many  must  succumb.' 

'  They  do.  When  I  was  in  Glasgow,  Miss  Lorraine,  I 
was  often  oppressed  by  such  thoughts.  It  is  not  known 
how  many  noble  hearts  have  to  do  grim  battle  with 
poverty,  with  adverse  surroundings,  nay,  sometimes  with 
absolute  want  It  must  sadden  the  very  angels  in 
heaven  to  see  the  sights  in  a  great  city.' 


SWEET  MOMENTS.  243 

'  In  London  you  will  see  more,  I  believe,  if  you  care 
to  seek  it,'  she  said,  looking  up  at  him  with  something 
of  wistful  ness  in  her  eyes.  He  caught  that  look ;  it 
touched  his  heart,  but  he  did  not  quite  understand 
it  yet 

'Papa  and  your  brother  are  not  in  sight,'  she  said 
suddenly.  '  Possibly  they  m.iy  have  crossed  the  park 
into  the  other  woods.  How  shall  we  go  ? ' 

'  Are  you  anxious  to  join  them  ?  If  not,  let  us  go  on. 
I  have  not  many  such  opportunities.' 

The  words  slipped  out  unawares,  and  he  saw  her 
colour  heighten,  and  the  fear  oppressed  him  that  he  had 
given  offence. 

'  Pardon  me,  I  ought  not  to  have  said  that,'  he  said  at 
once. 

'  What  ?  There  is  no  offence  to  pardon,'  she  answered 
with  a  smile.  '  This  is  the  gate.  This  path  terminates 
in  a  wishing- well.  Shall  we  go  and  see  it  ? ' 

'  If  you  please.' 

He  opened  the  gate  for  her  to  pass  through;  and  in  a 
moment  was  at  her  side  again. 

'  You  spoke  of  me  making  my  home  in  London,' 
he  said  presently.  '  Do  you  think  it  will  be  a 
home  ? ' 

'  I  cannot  tell ;  I  hope  so.  Surely  some  kind  influ- 
ences will  gather  round  you  even  there,'  she  said  a  trifle 
hurriedly.  '  Wherever  our  work  and  interests  are,  is  it 
not  home  to  us  ? ' 

'  Not  always.  There  are  other  things  necessary ;  you 
know  that  as  well  as  I.' 

'  Mr.  Bethune,  may  I  speak  to  you  about  something 
which  lies  very  near  my  heart  ? '  she  said  quite  suddenly, 
and  in  a  low,  clear,  earnest  voice. 

He  turned  his  head  and  looked  into  her  face.     It  was 


244  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

now  quite  pale,  and  her  lips  were  trembling,  her  breast 
heaving  with  emotion. 

'  If  you  will  do  so  I  shall  feel  unspeakably  honoured,' 
he  said  with  difficulty,  for  these  were  dangerous  moments 
for  him.  He  felt  as  if  he  were  playing  with  edged 
tools.  '  Needless  for  me  to  say  that  any  confidence 
with  which  you  may  honour  me  will  be  sacred  in  my 
eyes.' 

'  Oh,  I  know !  Do  you  think  if  I  did  not  know  I 
could  speak  so  to  you  ? '  she  asked  hurriedly.  '  It  is 
about  my  brother  I  wish  to  speak.  Possibly  you  may 
have  heard  that  I  have  a  brother  in  London,  who  has 
been  in  trouble,  who  has  been,  and  is,  a  sorrow  to 
us?' 

'  Your  cousin  told  me ;  and  you  spoke  of  this  sorrow 
before.  Perhaps  you  will  remember,'  he  said  in  tones 
full  of  deep  sympathy. 

'Yes,  I  remember.  Possibly  you  do  not  know  the 
circumstances.  Let  me  tell  you  them  briefly.  My 
father  was  a  merchant  in  London  before  we  came  here, 
and  Willie  and  I  were  all  he  had.  He  was  always 
a  strange,  wayward  boy,  full  of  whims  and  fancies 
and  day-dreams;  and  though  papa  intended  him  for  a 
merchant,  I,  looking  on,  feared  he  would  never  fall 
in  with  these  plans.  He  never  cared  to  work ;  the 
drudgery  of  school  was  irksome  to  him.  Give  him 
a  book,  or  a  piece  of  paper  and  a  pencil  in  a  corner, 
and  he  was  happy ;  only  do  not  ask  him  to  work. 
Papa  idolized  him,  indulged  him  in  everything,  and  yet 
if  he  crossed  him  in  any  of  his  wishes  he  would  hardly 
forgive  him.  As  he  grew  older  there  were  often  differ- 
ences between  them.  One  was  that  Willie  wished  to  be 
sent  to  college  instead  of  to  the  commercial  school  where 
he  would  receive  training  for  business.  Papa  gained  the 


SWEET  MOMENTS.  245 

day,  of  course,  because  he  left  Willie  no  clioice  but  to 
obey.  He  had  set  his  heart  upon  seeing  him  a  member 
of  the  firm.  Lorraine  and  Co.  was  a  well-known  house 
in  London,  well  known  and  highly  honoured.  It  belonged 
first  to  my  grandfather,  whose  idol  it  was.  Then  papa 
got  the  business,  and  it  was  his  delight  to  extend  it  and 
make  it  greater ;  naturally  it  was  a  disappointment  to 
him  when  his  only  son  did  not  share  his  pride  and 
interest  in  it.  Things  went  on  in  an  unsatisfactory  kind 
of  way  until  the  time  came  for  Willie  to  leave  school, 
then  it  was  open  rebellion.  He  refused  to  enter  the 
office  to  sit  on  a  stool  and  add  up  figures ;  he  wanted  to 
be  an  artist  or  a  literary  man,  or  something  of  that  sort. 
Poor  boy  !  he  hardly  knew  his  own  mind  except  in  one 
particular  subject — that  he  would  not  become  a  business 
man.  Papa  passed  over  his  entreaties  and  rebellings  with 
contempt,  and  to  punish  him  apprenticed  him  to  another 
firm  in  Fenchurch  Street.  I  tell  you  all  this,  Mr.  Bethune, 
so  that  you  may  the  better  understand  what  followed,' 
said  Beatrice,  and  paused  for  a  moment  as  if  to  collect 
her  self-possession  to  go  on.  '  Willie  had  none  of  papa's 
decision  of  character.  He  was  weak,  easily  led,  and 
could  not  say  no.  He  was  handsome,  lovable,  winning 
in  his  way.  I  have  never  seen  any  who  won  such 
universal  love.  Poor  Willie  ! ' 

A  bursting  sob  choked  her  utterance  a  moment,  and 
James  Bethune  bit  his  lip  and  half  turned  away.  The 
sight  of  her  grief  unmanned  him,  and  he  feared  lest  he 
should  say  what  would  be  better  left  unsaid. 

'  Bound  to  an  occupation  he  hated,  he  sought  solace 
in  the  company  of  those  who  could  not  do  him  good  bub 
only  harm.  He  was  so  entertaining,  he  had  always  a 
jest  and  a  song  ready,  and  he  was  much  sought  after  by 
those  who  led  him  astray.  I  do  not  want  to  blame  my 


246  TEE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

father,  for  my  heart  is  often  wrung  for  him,  but  I  some- 
times think  that  he  erred  just  at  that  time.  Instead  of 
trying  to  wean  him  away  by  love  from  the  evil  ways  into 
which  he  was  gradually  falling,  he  sternly  reproached 
him,  and  threatened  to  shut  him  out  of  the  house. 
Perhaps  you  will  not  understand  papa's  harshness  so 
well  as  I,  who  knew  what  a  downfall  Willie  had  given 
his  hopes,  and  what  a  disappointment  to  his  love.  For 
indeed  Willie  was  always  the  idol  of  his  heart.  He 
rever  had  money  of  his  own,  papa  gave  him  none,  and 
the  trifle  he  received  from  his  employers  was  as  nothing 
to  him,  and  so  he  was  tempted,  I  suppose,  very  fiercely 
before  he  fell.  He  had  learned  to  gamble,  and  it 
became  such  a  passion  with  him  that  he  threw  off  all 
restraint  and  plunged  into  it  headlong.  Of  course  his 
employers  suffered,  but  for  papa's  sake  they  made  no 
complaint,  passing  over  unpunctuaiity,  carelessness,  and 
idleness,  until  something  happened  which  it  was  impossible 
that  they  could  pass  over.  It  was  in  the  last  year  of  his 
apprenticeship,  and  he  was  not  quite  twenty  when  this 
dreadful  thing  happened.  I  cannot  quite  explain  to  you 
what  he  did,  but  it  was  something  about  a  cheque 
belonging  to  his  employers,  and  I  know  that  he  could 
have  been  punished  heavily  for  it,  even  sentenced  to 
penal  servitude,  so  papa  said.  But  for  his  sake,  because 
he  was  so  honoured  in  the  business  world,  the  firm 
hushed  it  up,  and  Willie  was  allowed  to  go  unpunished. 
But  it  broke  papa's  heart,  and  made  him  an  old  man 
before  his  time.  Willie  was  forbidden  the  house.  Papa 
disinherited  and  disowned  him,  and  we  have  never  seen 
him  since.  That  is  nearly  five  years  ago  now,  but  the 
agony  is  as  fresh  in  my  heart  as  it  was  then.  Papa  has 
never  relented.  I  have  pled  with  him  very  often ;  it  is 
so  awful  a  thing  to  allow  one's  own  to  drift  perhaps  to 


SWEET  MOMENTS.  247 

destruction  without  stretching  out  a  hand  to  save.  There 
was  good  in  Willie,  Mr.  Bethune.  He  had  a  warm, 
loving  heart,  a  sweet,  kind  disposition,  and  he  was  clever, 
too,  in  his  own  way,  very  clever,  if  only  he  had  had  a 
chance.  How  I  loved  him  I  cannot  tell  you.  Only  I 
know  that  I  would  lay  down  my  life  now  to  save  him, 
and  to  bring  about  a  reconciliation,  for  I  know  that  this 
sorrow  will  bring  papa  to  the  grave.  I  see  it  eating  into 
his  heart  every  day,  only  he  will  not  give  in.' 

They  had  reached  the  wishing-well  now — a  clear,  cool 
spring  flowing  into  a  uiossy  stone  basin  in  a  dim  recess, 
where  the  sunbeams  never  shone.  The  dusky  shadows 
of  the  deepening  night  were  falling  about  them,  the  light 
was  dim  and  uncertain,  and  the  air  was  strangely  still. 
She  paused  there,  and,  leaning  against  the  trunk  of  a  tall 
fir  tree,  lifted  her  shadowed  eyes  to  the  earnest,  true  face 
looking  down  with  such  deep  compassion  and  sympathy 
upon  her. 

'  Now  I  have  something  to  ask ;  I  do  not  know  why 
I  should  so  presume,  unless  because  you  feel  some  things 
as  I  feel  them,'  she  said  with  a  tremulous,  uncertain 
smile.  'If  in  London  you  should  ever  see  or  hear  of 
Willie,  Mr.  Bethune,  will  you  do  what  you  can  for  him  ? 
will  you  speak  a  kind  word,  and  thus  earn  the  gratitude 
and  prayers  of  a  sister's  heart  ? ' 

For  a  moment  James  Bethune  had  no  answer  ready, 
he  was  silent  in  the  intensity  of  the  thoughts  which  lay 
upon  him  like  a  deep  flood. 

'  If  I  ask  too  much  from  one  who  is  almost  a  stranger, 
forgive  me,  and  forget  what  I  have  told  you,'  she  said  at 
length,  with  something  of  sad,  proud  dignity  in  her  voice. 
'Let  us  go  back  now.  We  have  been  nearly  an  hour 
upon  the  way.  They  will  wonder  what  has  become 
of  us.' 


248  TEE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

'I  did  not  speak,  because  I  could  not  find  words 
wherein  to  express  my  unutterable  sympathy,  to  thank 
you  for  the  great  honour  you  have  done  me/  he  said  at 
length.  '  I  will  look  upon  your  request  as  a  sacred 
charge.  If  your  brother  is  in  London  still,  Miss  Lorraine, 
I  will  find  him,  and,  please  God,  all  will  come  right 
yet.' 

'  I  would  thank  you,  only  I  cannot,'  she  said  simply, 
and  held  out  her  hand.  It  did  not  seem  presumptuous 
that  he  should  touch  it  with  his  lips ;  it  was  the  seal  of  a 
bond  between  them, — a  bond  so  sweet  to  the  heart  of 
James  Bethune  that  he  could  scarcely  realize  its  exist- 
ence. She  had  trusted  him  implicitly,  that  was  sufficient 
for  him  yet. 

'  "We  must  go  now,  but  not  until  we  have  drunk  of  the 
wishing- well.  You  are  allowed  two  wishes,  one  before 
you  drink  and  one  after,'  she  said,  smiling  again,  and 
lifting  the  chain  with  the  cup  attached.  '  Let  me  give 
you  the  draught.' 

'  After  you,  Miss  Lorraine,  if  you  please.' 

'  Oh  no  1  I  have  wished  times  without  number 
always  the  same  thing.  Come,'  she  said,  offering  the 
cup. 

'  Then  I  wish  from  the  bottom  of  the  heart  that  your 
brother  may  be  speedily  restored,  and  that  brightest  days 
may  dawn  for  Nethercleugh,'  he  said,  putting  the  cup  to 
his  lips. 

'  And  your  second  wish,  if  I  may  share  it  too  ? '  she 
said  merrily,  for  something  in  the  strong,  manly  presence, 
and  in  the  resolute  yet  gentle  face,  gave  her  strength  and 
assurance,  and  it  was  as  if  some  burden  had  rolled  away 
from  her  heart. 

'  Let  me  fasten  your  wrap — see,  it  has  fallen,  and  the 
night  air  is  heavy  and  chill,'  he  said,  and  with  kind 


SWEET  MOMENTS.  249 

hand  drew  the  lace  over  her  head.  As  he  did  so  his 
hand  touched  hers  again,  and  it  thrilled  his  inmost 
beJng. 

•  Thank  you.  But  your  wish  ? '  she  said  with  a  gleam 
of  amusement  in  her  speaking  eye. 

'  That  I  may  not  tell  you/  he  answered  then,  and  the 
quick  colour  leaped  to  his  cheek,  for  his  tone  betrayed 
more  than  the  words  were  intended  to  convey.  She 
gathered  the  white  folds  of  her  gown  in  her  hand,  and 
turned  away  so  quickly  that  he  might  have  feared  he 
had  the  second  time  given  offence.-  Only  he  saw  the 
answering  flush  wliich  rose  to  her  brow  and  dyed 
it  red. 


CHAPTER    XVITL 


THE   WANDERER. 

'Heir  of  the  self-same  heritage, 
Child  of  the  self-same  God, 
He  has  but  stumbled  in  the  path 
Thou  hast  in  weakness  trod.' 

kAMES  BETHUNE  found  plenty  of  work  await- 
ing him  in  London.  The  post  of  sub-editor  to 
the  St.  Paul's  Gazette  was  no  sinecure.  But 
it  was  congenial  wor*  and  he  did  not  find 
it  oppressive.  The  St.  Pauls  Gazette  was  a 
different  class  of  newspaper  from  the- Glasgow 
Journal.  It  was  published  in  the  afternoon, 
and,  while  purveying  politics]  and  general  news  for  its 
readers,  aimed  at  something  higher.  It  was  the  pro- 
prietor's ideal  to  combine  the  attributes  of  an  evening 
paper  and  a  literary  and  social  review,  and  to  produce 
a  first-class  family  journal,  full  of  interesting  and  whole- 
some matter.  It  was  an  old-established  publication 
which  had  seen  many  vicissitudes,  but  which  had 
received  a  new  impetus  from  its  present  proprietor,  who 
was  also  its  editor.  He  was  an  able  journalist,  and  the 

250 


THE   WANDERER.  251 

Gazette  was  rapidly  pushing  its  way  into  notice.     It  was 
a  splendid  opening  for  James  Bethune,  just  the  field  for 
the  exercise  of  his  gifts,  where  they  could  be  prepared  and 
perfected  for  even  a  higher  sphere.     Mr.  Maynard  was 
a  reserved  and  taciturn  man,  very  different  from  the  frank, 
open-hearted,  genial  proprietor  of  the  Glasgow  Journal, 
and  at  first  James  Bethune  felt  the  change  keenly.     He 
was  received  courteously  but  without  warmth ;  his  work 
was  apportioned  to  him,  and  he  was  left  to  perform  it. 
But  there  was  no  interchange  of  thought,  no  confidences, 
no  kind  links  of  sympathy  between  the  two.     Mr.  May- 
nard did  not  even  inquire  whether  he  had  found  suitable 
lodging,  or  had  any  place  wherein  to  spend  a  leisure  hour. 
The  relations  between  them  were  business-like  and  purely 
formal.    When  Stephen  Maynard  found  a  capable  servant 
he  was  a  just  master,  but  no  more.     James  Bethune  had 
been  full  of  hope  that  perhaps  in  Mr.  Maynard  he  might 
find  one  who  would  give  him  substantial  aid  in  his  search 
for  Willie  Lorraine.     He  was  a  London   man,  and  his 
experience  must  have  familiarized  him  with  almost  every 
form  of  London   life  ;  in   all   probability  he  could  have 
named  the  very  spot  where  such  wanderers  were  to  be 
found,  but  it  was  impossible  to  reach  him.      As  the  days 
went  by,  James  Bethnne  saw  clearly  what  manner   of 
relations  were  to  exist  between  them,  and   relinquished 
the   idea   of   bestowing   his   confidence    and   asking    his 
advice.      If  Willie  Lorraine  was  to  be  found,  it  must  be 
through  his  own  exertions,  and  it  would  be  no  easy  task. 
Tor   the   first   month   or   two   he   attended  only  to   his 
allotted  duties,  his  own  work  was  neglected.     It  was  not 
only  that  his  leisure  hours  were  chiefly  spent  in  wander- 
ing through  the  labyrinths  of  London,  vainly  seeking  for 
the  lost  son  of  the  house  of  Lorraine  ;  there  was  something 
else  occupying  his  thoughts.     Often  Sandy's  words  re- 


252  THE  GATES  OF  EDEK 

curred  to  his  memory :  '  When  a  woman  comes  between 
you  and  your  work,  you'll  stand  still  for  a  while.'  So  it 
was  with  him.  And  yet  I  do  not  know  that  it  was 
standing  still ;  certainly  thought  was  not  stagnant.  Nay, 
he  was  advancing  step  by  step  in  the  higher  life,  and  love, 
with  matchless  though  invisible  finger,  was  adding  the 
finest  touches  to  his  nature.  A  pure  love  is  a  great 
educator  and  an  ennobling  influence.  We  cannot  love 
even  a  worthy  pursuit  without  being  the  better  for  it. 
By  and  by,  out  of  the  sweet  new  influences  at  work 
within,  thoughts  grew  wide  and  deep  and  absorbing, 
demanding  at  length  a  voice. 

What  he  wrote  in  these  days  had  a  grace  and  beauty 
far  exceeding  what  he  had  done  in  the  past.  The  touch 
of  pain,  which  is  the  crown  of  the  poet's  soul,  was  not 
now  lacking,  for  the  yearnings  in  his  heart  for  life's  best 
gifts  were  full  of  keenest  pain.  He  knew  now  beyond  a 
doubt  that  he  loved  Beatrice  Lorraine  with  that  deep, 
reverential,  yet  hopeless  love  of  which  Dante  sang.  He 
never  thought  of  her  as  his  wife,  nor  as  any  neare.7  than 
she  was  now.  Between  them  there  was  a  gulf  fixed, 
that  gulf  of  social  position  which  the  longer  he  lived  he 
saw  more  clearly  defined  between  class  and  class.  He 
was  one  of  earth's  toilers,  dependent  upon  daily  labour 
for  daily  bread ;  while  she  was  a  child  of  ease  and  afflu- 
ence, who  had  never  known  a  moment's  anxiety  concern- 
ing such  things. 

He  was  too  proud  even  to  think  that  love  could  bridge 
that  gulf, — no  thought  of  asking  her  to  share  his  life  of 
labour  and  humble  endeavour  ever  presented  itself  to  his 
mind.  He  might  love  her  at  a  distance,  he  could  carry 
her  image  with  him  in  his  heart,  he  could  ponder  her 
gracious  words,  and  feel  them  incentives  to  go  forward 
and  upward  in  life's  race,  but  she  must  never  know. 


THE   WANDERER.  .-         253 

Sometimes  his  cheek  burned  at  the  memory  of  that  hour 
by  the  wishing-well,  and  he  told  himself  it  must  not  and 
could  not  be  repeated.  Better  that  they  should  never 
meet ;  he  knew  he  could  not  always  remain  master  of 
himself.  It  must  be  enough  for  him  to  know  that  she 
trusted  him,  and  regarded  him  as  worthy  a  friendly 
regard.  From  her  own  lips  he  had  heard  the  story  of 
her  heart-sorrow ;  she  had  given  him  a  sacred  charge, 
which  he  would  strive  sacredly  to  fulfil.  That  was  much 
— and  with  that  he  must  be  content.  Should  he  succeed 
in  restoring  the  prodigal  to  his  father's  house,  he  would 
earn,  he  knew,  a  gratitude  which  would  be  a  sweet  solace 
to  him  in  his  loneliness.  Their  kindly  thoughts  of  him 
would  brighten  existence  for  him,  and  he  looked  cheer- 
fully forward  to  the  life  of  work  and  struggle  and  self- 
denial  which  he  knew  lies  before  all  who  set  themselves 
to  do  their  God-appointed  work.  In  the  scheme  of 
creation  there  is  no  place  for  the  idle  dreamer  or  the 
slothful  dweller  at  ease ;  work  is  the  law  of  the  universe, 
whether  we  recognise  it  or  not.  According  as  we  have 
fulfilled  God's  purpose  in  us  here,  so  will  be  our  rest. 
Sometimes  our  eyes  are  holden,  so  that  we  cannot  see 
God's  best  gifts  lying  close  about  our  feet,  even  while  we 
are  seeking  for  some  great  thing  far  beyond  our  reach ; 
but  a  truly  earnest  soul,  asking  and  waiting  to  be  guided, 
will  not  long  be  at  a  loss. 

It  was  a  somewhat  hopeless  task  for  James  Bethune 
to  attempt  discovering  Willie  Lorraine  in  the  mazes  of 
London.  Soon  after  his  settlement  there  came  to  him, 
in  a  letter  from  Sandy,  the  photograph  of  a  young,  fair- 
haired,  laughing-faced  boy,  which  the  minister  wrote  had 
been  given  to  him  by  Miss  Lorraine  to  forward  to  his 
brother.  Sandy  was  evidently  deeply  mystified  by  this 
proceeding,  but  he  did  not  ask  any  direct  question.  Jamie 


254       •-..      THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

merely  acknowledged  it,  not  feeling  at  liberty  to  reveal 
the  secret,  even  to  his  brother.  There  was  a  hopeful 
and  manly  tone  in  Sandy's  letters  now,  which  was  like 
a  refreshing  cordial  to  Jamie,  for  he  could  read  between 
the  lines,  and  saw  well  enough  that  he  was  coming  out 
of  the  waters  of  Marah  not  only  unscathed,  but  made 
nobler  and  manlier  and  better  in  every  way.  The  little 
items  of  parish  news  were  cheering,  and  there  were  no 
further  hints  of  a  desire  for  change.  It  was  a  healthy 
sign  that  Sandy  was  anxious  to  redeem  himself  in  his 
own  parish,  which  had  suffered  through  his  backsliding. 
The  photograph,  though  evidently  taken  in  schoolboy  days, 
would  be  of  use  to  James  Bethune,  for  though  there 
might  be  a  great  change  upon  the  wanderer,  the  features 
must  be  the  same. 

So  he  carried  it  in  his  pocket-book,  and  when  he  was 
in  the  streets  was  constantly  on  the  alert,  scanning  every 
passing  face  in  the  hope  that  some  day  he  might  have  his 
reward.  It  was  a  harassing  quest,  causing  him  deep 
anxiety  of  mind,  and  it  gradually  took  possession  of  him, 
and  became  something  like  a  haunting  spectre  with  him 
both  day  and  night.  But  it  seemed  likely  to  prove  hope- 
less, for  winter  advanced,  and  he  had  not  obtained  the 
remotest  clue. 

Part  of  the  sub-editor's  work  was  to  open  and  look 
over  all  the  manuscripts  sent  in,  from  which  he  had  to 
select  the  likeliest,  which  were  then  submitted  for  Mr. 
Maynard's  final  decision.  At  first  James  Bethune  found 
it  an  interesting  occupation,  but  it  speedily  became 
irksome  and  even  painful.  Two-thirds  of  them  were 
quite  unfit  for  publication,  scarcely  worth  the  paper  on 
which  they  were  written.  But  these  meagre  productions 
were  often  accompanied  by  pitiful  appeals,  which  con- 
tained many  a  revelation,  many  a  hint  of  poverty  which 


THE   WANDERER.  255 

was  almost  tragic,  against  which  James  Bethune  found 
it  hard  to  steel  himself.  His  great  heart  had  room  for 
all  the  woes  of  these  unknown  scribblers,  whom  he  pitied 
with  a  vast  compassion.  Stephen  Maynard  was  of  a 
different  stamp.  He  looked  at  everything  from  a  purely 
business  point  of-  view.  Would  it  pay  ?  was  the  standard 
by  which  he  judged.  He  laughed  at  his  subordinate's 
feeling  in  such  matters,  and  told  him  never  to  read  the 
accompanying  letters,  but  toss  them  into  the  waste 
basket,  which  was  the  best  place  for  such  rubbish.  He 
was  sitting  in  his  dingy  little  sanctum,  from  which  he 
could  see  the  dome  of  St.  Paul's,  busy  with  his  daily 
sifting  of  the  manuscripts  the  morning  mail  had  brought. 
The  gas  was  lighted,  and  the  fire  burning  also,  for  the 
day  was  bitterly  cold,  and  a  raw  heavy  fog  had  the  city 
in  its  chilling  folds.  lie  sighed  once  or  twice  as  he 
marked  each  with  the  inexorable  D.  W.  T. ;  it  was  a 
dreary  task  to  which  he  would  never  grow  accustomed. 
He  felt  somewhat  out  of  sorts  that  morning,  also  the 
depressing  influences  of  the  day  and  the  hour  were 
weighing  upon  him.  He  had  got  about  half  through 
with  his  task  when  the  door  opened  and  Mr.  Maynard 
entered.  He  was  a  tall,  spare  man,  with  a  pale,  stern 
cast  of  face  and  a  penetrating  eye ;  a  man  who  had 
been  long  accustomed  to  present  a  hard  front  t>  the 
world. 

'  Good  morning,  Mr.  Bethune,'  he  said  in  his  studiously 
courteous  but  distant  way.  '  Disagreeable  day,  isn't  it  ? 
Did  you  read  this  thing  through  yesterday  ? ' 

He  referred  to  a  few  sheets  of  closely-written  manu- 
script he  carried  in  his  hand. 

'  What  is  it,  sir  ? ; 

'  An  article  on  the  housing  of  the  poor/ 

'  I  merely  looked  at  it.     I  thought  it  opened  well,  and 


256  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

as  the  subject  has  been  engrossing  public  attention  lately 
I  sent  it  in  to  your  table/  answered  James  Bethune. 

'  It  is  good.  A  little  wordy  perhaps,  but  it  is  original 
in  conception.  The  writer  seems  to  feel  keenly  on  the 
subject.  Where  did  it  come  from  do  you  know  ?  There 
is  no  name  attached.' 

'  It  was  left  at  the  office  yesterday  afternoon,  the  boy 
told  me.  The  person  who  left  it  was  to  call  again.' 

'  Was  it  a  man  or  woman  ? ' 

'  I  couldn't  say,  sir ;  but  we  can  speedily  ascertain,' 
answered  James  Bethune,  and  rising  he  called  down  the 
speaking-trumpet  to  the  office-boy  in  the  counting-house 
below. 

'It  was  a  young  man,  Hunter  says,'  said  James 
Bethune  after  a  brief  conversation  with  the  boy.  '  He 
seemed  to  be  very  eager  about  it,  and  said  he  would  call 
to-day.' 

'  Well,  if  he  comes  you  can  see  him,  and  return  the 
manuscript.  Tell  him  there  is  too  much  theory  and  too 
little  practical  suggestion  in  it ;  and  ask  him  to  try 
again.  I  like  the  style  of  the  thing.  It  is  taking,  if  it 
was  toned  down  a  little.  You  understand  me  ? ' 

'  Perfectly,  sir.' 

'  Are  you  nearly  through  ? '  he  asked  then  with  a 
careless  glance  at  the  litter  of  papers  on  the  table.  '  Toss 
the  rest  into  the  basket  and  get  away  to  Exeter  HalL 
The  meeting  opens  at  twelve,  and  it  is  half-past  eleven 
now.' 

So  saying,  Mr.  Maynard  laid  down  the  manuscript 
and  retired.  James  Bethune  took  it  up  curiously  and 
looked  at  it  again.  The  handwriting  struck  him  as  it 
had  not  done  previously,  it  was  so  beautifully  legible, 
like  the  fair  round  caligraphy  of  a  boy  fresh  from  school. 
He  took  a  piece  of  paper  and  wrote  a  note  to  be  given 


THE   WANDERER.  257 

to  the  writer  should  he  call  in  his  absence,  and,  wrapping 
up  the  manuscript,  put  on  hat  and  coat  and  went  down- 
stairs. 

After  giving  the  boy  his  instructions,  he  proceeded 
to  Exeter  Hall  to  report  the  speech  of  a  great  philan- 
thropist on  one  of  the  burning  questions  of  the  day.  It 
was  after  two  o'clock  when  he  returned  to  the  office. 
Mr.  Maynard  had  gone  out  to  lunch,  and  there  were 
some  letters  lying  on  the  sub-editor's  table  demanding 
immediate  attention.  He  was  engrossed  with  these,  and 
had  forgotten  all  about  the  incident  of  the  morning, 
when  Hunter  spoke  from  down-stairs. 

'  It's  the  young  man  for  the  manuscript,  sir.  Shall  I 
give  it  him,  or  will  you  see  him  ? ' 

'  Bring  him  up,  Hunter,'  he  called  back,  and  went  on 
with  his  writing,  anxious  to  have  the  letters  ready  for 
the  three  o'clock  mail 

'  Take  a  seat  please,  and  I  will  attend  to  you  presently,' 
he  said,  glancing  hastily  at  the  stranger  as  he  entered  the 
room. 

'  Hunter,  is  the  bag  ready  ? ' 

'  Yes,  sir,  just  getting  closed.' 

'  Ask  them  to  wait  a  moment,  I'll  be  ready  presently,' 
said  Mr.  Bethune,  and  with  a  few  rapid  strokes  he 
finished  the  last  letter,  closed  and  addressed  it,  aiid 
passed  it  with  the  others  to  the  boy. 

Then  he  rose  and  looked  for  the  first  time  fully  at  the 
stranger  who  had  been  ushered  into  his  presence.  That 
glance  filled  him  with  pity,  but  did  not  strike  him  in  any 
other  way  yet.  He  was  a  young  man,  four  or  five  and 
twenty  at  most ;  his  appearance  and  attire  betokened 
extreme  poverty.  His  shabby  black  coat,  long  since 
glazed  at  the  seams  and  frayed  at  the  sleeves,  hung 
loosely  about  a  thin,  slight  figure,  and  his  face  was 

22 


258  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

sharpened  and  attenuated,  as  if  he  had  known  what  it 
was  to  lack  many  a  meal.  It  was  a  winning  and  in 
some  respects  a  striking  face ;  but  it  wore  an  expression 
of  settled  melancholy  painful  to  see ;  and  the  blue  eyes, 
far  sunken  under  the  broad,  square  forehead,  gleamed 
with  a  strange  bitterness,  as  if  they  had  been  long 
accustomed  to  sad  scenes.  A  slight  moustache  curled 
on  the  lip,  half  hiding  the  weak,  womanish  mouth,  the 
most  undecided  feature  in  the  face.  His  hair  was  sunny 
in  hue,  and  set  in  close,  curling  masses  about  the  head, 
which  was  well-shaped,  but  too  small  to  be  manly.  As 
James  Bethune  looked,  a  strange,  wild  hope,  too  impro- 
bable to  have  any  foundation  in  fact,  sprang  into  his 
heart,  agitating  him  so  much  that  it  was  with  difficulty 
he  controlled  himself  so  as  to  speak  calmly  and 
courteously  to  the  stranger. 

'You  are  the  writer  of  the  article  on  the  housing  of 
the  poor,  I  believe?'  he  said,  glancing  significantly  at  the 
packet  in  the  young  man's  white,  thin  fingers. 

'Yes,  sir.'  A  light  so  eager  as  to  be  almost  wild 
sprang  into  the  deep  blue  eyes.  '  Will  it  do  ?  Oh,  sir, 
if  you  would  only  take  it,  and  give  me  a  trifle  for  it ! 
It  was  written  almost  with  my  life's  blood.' 

'  My  poor  fellow,  it  is  not  in  my  power  to  accept  or 
reject  articles.  I  am  not  the  principal  in  this  office,'  said 
James  Bethune  with  deep  compassion.  '  But  I  am  happy 
to  tell  you  that  the  editor  is  much  pleased  with  it,  only 
it  is  not  quite  suitable  for  our  columns.' 

'  Then  he  will  give  me  nothing,'  said  the  young  man 
with  something  like  a  groan.  '  My  last  chance  gone ! 
My  God !  there  is  nothing  left  for  me  now  but  death.' 

'  Hush,  hush  !  These  are  wild,  wicked  words.  My 
poor  fellow  !  I  can  see  you  are  in  sore  straits.  Sit  down 
and  let  us  talk  over  the  matter.  I  have  known  what  it 


TEE   WANDERER.  259 

is  to  struggle  for  a  place  in  the  overcrowded  ranks,'  said 
James  Bethune  with  infinite  gentleness.  '  It  isn't  quite 
hopeless.  The  editor  wishes  you  to  rewrite  this,  and 
if  you  can  make  it  suitable  he  will  pay  you  well 
for  it.' 

Again  that  quick,  eager  light  sprang  into  the  deeply- 
shadowed  eyes. 

'  What  is  the  matter  with  it  ?  It  is  all  true,  hideously 
true.  Perhaps  I  have  not  minced  the  matter,  nor  made 
it  fine  enough  and  sweet  enough  for  the  rich  people  who 
might  deign  to  read  it.  But  I  have  done  my  duty.  I 
have  written  down  what  I  have  seen  and  known,  aye, 
and  what  I  have  suffered.  I  have  been  one  of  the 
houseless  poor.' 

'  How  have  you  fallen  so  low  ?  You  were  reared  in  a 
different  atmosphere,'  said  James  Bethune  unsteadily,  for 
he  had  caught  a  reflection  of  Beatrice  Lorraine  in  that 
impassioned  face,  and  hope  was  changing  to  conviction  in 
his  breast. 

'  How  do  you  know  where  I  was  reared  ? '  asked  the 
stranger  almost  fiercely.  '  Tell  me  what  I  am  to  do  with 
this  paper,  and  let  me  go.  I  am  not  begging.  I  don't 
want  your  pity.  I  am  willing  to  work  for  anything  I 
can  get.' 

James  Bethune  restrained  himself  with  an  effort,  and, 
taking  the  sheets  from  the  stranger's  hand,  briefly  pointed 
out  to  him  wherein  it  lacked,  and  suggested  what  might 
be  done  to  improve  it. 

'  If  I  bring  it  back  to-morrow,  will  he  give  me  some- 
thing for  it  ?  I  have  tasted  nothing  since  yesterday;  and 
I  do  not  know  when  I  shall  taste,  unless  I  get  something 
for  this.' 

He  had  risen  to  his  feet,  and  his  hand  shook  as  it 
closed  over  the  sheets  that  had  been  written  at  such 


260  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

terrible  cost.  Tears  stood  in  James  Bethune's  eyes,  and 
for  a  moment  he  could  not  command  himself  sufficiently 
to  speak.  That  such  things  should  be  in  great  and 
Christian  London  might  well  make  the  angels  weep.  He 
took  down  his  hat  and  opened  the  door. 

'  Come  with  me.  You  must  have  something  to  eat 
now.  Hush !  not  a  word !  "What  I  do  is  only  a  duty 
from  man  to  man.  You  dare  not  refuse.  Come.' 

Meek,  pliable  as  a  child,  the  stranger  followed  James 
Bethune  out  of  the  room  and  out  into  the  busy  street. 
The  clerks  in  the  lower  office  looked  curiously  over  the 
gauze  blinds  after  them,  but  James  Bethune  was  equal 
to  the  occasion.  He  took  the  stranger  by  the  arm, 
fearful  lest  he  should  lose  him,  and  led  him  to  a  restaurant 
in  Fleet  Street,  where  he  asked  to  be  shown  to  a  private 
room,  and  ordered  a  substantial  repast. 

'  Why  should  you  show  me  such  kindness  ? '  said  the 
young  man  impetuously.  '  You  know  nothing  about  me ; 
I  have  no  claim  upon  you.' 

'  Save  what  one  fellow-creature  has  upon  another. 
Hush !  not  another  word  !  Eat  now,  and  we  can  talk 
afterwards.  You  will  excuse  me ;  it  is  only  an  hour 
since  I  dined. 

So  saying,  he  retired  to  the  window,  and  picked  up  a 
paper  lying  on  the  chair.  It  was  a  week-old  copy  of 
the  Times,  but  he  occupied  himself  with  it,  so  that  the 
stranger  might  not  feel  himself  being  watched.  It  was 
a  touch  of  delicacy  to  be  expected  in  such  a  nature. 
The  sight  of  the  tempting  food  made  the  poor  young 
fellow  forget  all  but  his  hunger,  and  he  ate  as  those  eat 
who  have  kept  a  long  fast.  It  was  well,  perhaps,  that 
James  Bethune  did  not  observe  him ;  he  could  not  have 
enjoyed  the  sight  of  his  ravenous  appreciation  of  the  food 
he  had  provided.  It  told  a  too  pitiful  tale. 


THE   WANDERER.  261 

'  I  have  to  thank  you  for  the  only  decent  meal  I  have 
eaten  for  many  weeks ;  how  many  1  have  lost  count  of 
now  ! '  he  said  at  length.  '  I  feel  like  a  new  man.  There 
is  hope  and  strength  in  me  once  more.' 

'  I  am  glad  of  it.  Come  and  sit  down  here  and  let 
us  talk.  But  suppose  you  tell  me  your  name  first  ? 
Bethune  is  mine — James  Bethune.' 

'  My  name ! '  The  stranger  gave  a  violent  start, 
which  was  keenly  observed  by  his  kind  friend.  '  Oh, 
well,  if  you  must  have  it,  it  is  Lovel — Walter  Lovel ! ' 

'  Well,  Mr.  Lovel/  said  James  Bethune  cheerfully,  for 
link  by  link  the  chain  was  growing  complete,  '  suppose 
you  tell  me  where  you  live  now.  I  am  a  stranger 
in  London,  and  I  live  alone.  I  daresay  we  can  be 
friends.' 

'  Friends  !  Did  you  say  friends  with  such  as  I  ? ' 
repeated  Walter  Lovel.  '  What  manner  of  man  are  you  ? 
There  is  not  another  in  your  position  in  London  who 
would  walk  the  streets  beside  an  outcast  like  me.' 

'  That  is  a  sweeping  assertion,  which  I  would  not  like 
to  believe,'  said  James  Bethune  with  his  rare,  kind 
smile.  '  But  you  have  not  answered  my  question.  Where 
do  you  live  ? ' 

'  Anywhere,'  answered  Walter  Lovel  bitterly.  '  I  have 
no  home.  I  sleep  where  I  can — sometimes  in  a  wretched 
lodging,  oftenest  in  the  open  air.  I  have  not  three  feet 
of  space  under  any  roof  I  can  claim  as  my  own.  Do  you 
know  where  I  wrote  that  article  ?— sitting  on  one  of  the 
seats  in  St.  James's  Park.' 

'  Have  you  no  friends  or  relatives  ? ' 

'  No  ;  I  have  none.' 

He  rose  then,  and  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the 
narrow  room,  as  if  some  haunting  memory  filled  him 
with  restlessness.  'I  have  a  story.  I  suppose  most 


262  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

people  have,  of  one  kind  or  another.  You  deserve  to 
hear  it,  but  I  cannot  tell  it  yet.  But  you  were  right  in 
saying  that  I  had  been  reared  in  a  different  atmo- 
sphere.' 

'  It  did  not  require  much  penetration  to  discern  that. 
You  have  the  manner  and  the  look  of  a  gentleman.  But 
what  are  you  going  to  do  now  ? ' 

'  Do  ?  What  I  have  done  for  many  days  past — pace 
the  streets  till  darkness  falls,  and  then  creep  into  some 
corner  and  seek  the  blessed  oblivion  of  sleep.  How 
often  have  I  wished  that  I  should  never  awake  !  The 
wonder  to  myself  is  that  I  have  not  put  an  end  to  it 
long  ago.  My  life  is  hardly  worth  throwing  away.' 

James  Bethune  shuddered.  Verily,  if  Willie  Lorraine 
had  sinned,  he  had  suffered ;  he  had  borne  an  awful 
punishment  for  the  waywardness  of  his  youth. 

'  Will  you  make  me  a  promise  ? '  he  asked  presently, 
fixing  his  keen,  quiet  eyes  full  on  the  wasted  face. 

'  That  depends — but  yes,  I  will.  You  have  a  right  to 
such  poor  promises  as  I  can  make.' 

'Then  you  will  promise  unconditionally  to  do  what 
I  ask  ? ' 

'  If  you  wish  it — yes.  It  matters  little  to  me  what  I 
do  now.' 

'  Then  you  will  meet  me  outside  the  Law  Courts  to- 
night at  half-past  six  ?  I  shall  be  free  then — that  is 
three  hours  hence.' 

'Yes;  I  will.' 

'  Upon  your  honour  ? ' 

'  Upon  my  honour,  if  I  have  any,'  said  Walter  Level, 
and  a  smile  for  the  first  time  played  about  his  mouth. 
James  Bethune  turned  his  head  quickly  aside,  lest  his 
face  should  betray  something  which  might  arouse  sus- 
picion. For  that  fleeting  smile  was  the  faint  but  unmis- 


THE   WANDERER.  263 

takable  reflex  of  the  sunny  radiance  he  had  seen  upon 
the  face  of  Beatrice  Lorraine.  His  quest  was  ended,  but 
there  was  much  to  be  accomplished  before  it  could  be 
crowned  with  success.  This  poor  wanderer,  embittered 
and  soured  with  his  sufferings,  would  require  very 
gentle  dealing  before  he  could  be  won  back  to  the 
better  way. 

'  If  I  dared  take  such  a  name  upon  my  lips,  I  should 
say,  God  bless  you,'  said  Walter  Lovel,  as  they  turned  to 
leave  the  place.  A  soft  and  beautiful  expression  stole 
into  his  face  as  he  uttered  these  words ;  his  eyes  swam 
with  tears,  all  the  bitterness  was  gone.  James  Bethune 
felt  his  heart  go  out  to  him,  and  involuntarily  he  extended 
his  hand. 

1  I  thank  God  for  the  privilege  I  have  had  to-day,' 
was  all  he  said,  then  they  went  forth  into  the  street. 
They  parted  there,  with  the  renewed  promise  to  meet  at 
the  hour  and  the  place  James  Bethune  had  appointed, 
and  the  latter  returned  to  the  office  of  the  Gazette.  If 
he  was  abstracted  and  uninterested  in  his  work  that 
afternoon,  it  cannot  be  wondered  at ;  he  had  much  to 
occupy  his  thoughts.  Directly  Walter  Lovel  was  out  of 
his  sight,  the  fear  took  possession  of  him  that  he  had 
lost  him  again,  and  he  was  feverishly  impatient  for  the 
appointed  hour.  Ten  minutes  before  the  half-hour  he 
was  restlessly  pacing  the  pavements  before  the  La^v 
Courts,  and,  calm,  self-reliant  man  though  he  was,  he 
telt  himself  sick  with  apprehension  lest  Walter  Lovel 
should  fail  him.  But  no ;  punctually  at  the  half-hour 
he  saw  the  poor,  shabby  figure  elbowing  his  way 
through  the  crowd,  and  he  drew  a  long  breath  of 
relief. 

'  I  am  thankful  to  see  you ! '  he  exclaimed  when  they 
met  '  I  was  terribly  afraid  lest  I  had  lost  you  again.' 


2C4  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

'  Would  it  have  mattered  so  much  to  you  ?'  inquired 
Walter  Lovel  with  a  curious  look.  '  Why  should  you 
take  such  a  deep  interest  in  me  ? ' 

'I  am  interested.  I  want  to  help  you,'  answered 
James  Bethune  hastily.  'Now,  do  you  put  yourself  in 
my  hands  ?  You  believe  I  truly  want  to  befriend  you  ?' 

'Yes,  I  do.' 

'  Then  come,  promise  not  to  utter  a  word  till  I  give 
you  permission,'  eaid  James  Bethune  with  a  smile. 

'  Well,  I  will ;  but  I  am  completely  mystified/ 

'  Never  mind,'  laughed  his-  friend,  and,  beckoning  to  a 
cabman,  motioned  Walter  to  enter,  and  followed  him,  after 
giving  the  order  to  drive  to  Finsbury  Square. 

'  I  am  lodging  there  just  now.  My  landlady  is  a 
Scotchwoman,  and  is  devoted  to  me.  You  will  feel  quite 
at  home  with  her.' 

'  I  doubt  she  will  look  rather  askance  at  me,'  said 
Walter  ruefully,  glancing  at  his  miserable  attire. 

'We'll  soon  remedy  that.  We'll  hunt  up  something 
for  you  to  wear  till  you  can  get  a  suit  to  fit  to-morrow.' 

'  Am  I  going  home  with  you,  then  ?  How  can  you 
trust  me  so?  I  might  be  deceiving  you  all  the  time,' 
said  Walter  with  a  strange,  boyish  wistfulness,  which 
made  his  face  look  young  and  pure  and  good,  like  the 
face  in  the  portrait  lying  in  James  Bethune's  pocket- 
book. 

'  I  know  you  are  not  deceiving  me,'  he  answered 
quietly,  and  there  was  little  more  said  until  they  reached 
the  house  in  Finsbury  Square.  James  Bethune  paid  and 
dismissed  the  cabman,  ushered  his  protege  up  to  his  own 
sitting-room,  and  went  in  search  of  his  landlady.  He 
told  her  just  so  much  as  seemed  good  to  him,  and  with 
such  effect  as  to  rouse  the  good  woman's  sympathies,  and 
overcome  her  prejudice  and  caution  where  strangers  were 


THE   WANDERER.  265 

concerned.  She  would  have  put  herself  to  the  most 
extraordinary  trouble  to  serve  her  lodger,  and  if  it  was 
to  save  a  youth  from  utter  ruin  she  was  willing  to  let 
Mr.  Bethune  keep  him  in  the  house,  if  he  could  give  his 
word  that  he  would  not  create  any  disturbance  or  make 
her  nervous. 

James  Bethune  set  her  mind  quite  at  ease  on  that 
point,  and  then  returned  to  his  strange  guest.  In  about 
half  an  hour  afterwards,  when  Mrs.  Mackay  brought  in 
the  tea-tray,  the  twain  were  sitting  at  the  fire  like  old 
friends. 

'  This  is  my  friend,  Mr.  Lovel,  Mrs.  Mackay.  I  am 
sure  you  will  be  as  good  to  him  as  you  are  to  me,  won't 
you  ?'  said  James  Bethune  at  once,  knowing  just  how  to 
keep  the  good  woman  in  the  best  of  humours. 

Rhe  sot  down  her  tray  and  took  a  deliberate  survey 
of  the  stranger.  In  the  interval  he  had  washed  and 
attired  l.imself  in  a  suit  belonging  to  his  benefactor,  and 
looked  like  a  different  being.  As  Mrs.  Mackay  looked 
at  the  worn  face,  the  blue-veined  brow  with  the  rings 
of  gold  lying  upon  it,  at  the  sad  blue  eyes  and  the 
sweet  mouth,  her  motherly  heart  filled ;  and  he  returned 
her  glance  with  a  hesitating,  wistful  one,  as  if  fearing  her 
verdict.  That  look  won  her  completely. 

'  I'll  do  that,  Mr.  Bethune,  sir.  Come  and  have  your 
teas  now,  for  your  friend,  poor  young  gentleman,  looks  as 
if  he  sair  needit  it.'  So  saying,  Mrs.  Mackay  hastily 
retired,  quite  overcome. 

'  But  what  does  this  all  mean?'  asked  "Walter  Lovel 
in  a  strange,  hurried  way.  '  May  I  speak  now  ?  Am  I 
to  stay  here  with  you  uill  to-morrow  ? ' 

'  This  will  be  your  home  in  the  meantime  if  you  will 
stay.  And  we'll  get  something  for  you  to  do  very  soon  ; 
perhaps  in  the  Gazette  office.  I'll  see  about  it  to-morrow/ 

23 


266  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

said  James  Bethune  hurriedly.  '  Come  away ;  no  non- 
sense now  !  the  tea  is  getting  cold.' 

'  I  cannot  understand  it.  I  have  no  claim  upon  you. 
Am  I  to  sleep  here  all  night  ?  Is  this  to  be  my  home  ? ' 

It  was  indescribably  touching  to  listen  to  his  faltering 
words,  and  to  see  the  deep,  yearning  questioning  in  his 
sunken  eyes. 

'  I  said  so,  if  you  will  stay.' 

Then  Walter  Lovel  laid  his  arms  on  the  table,  and, 
bowing  his  head  upon  them,  burst  into  tears. 


CHAPTER    XIX 


SAVED. 

1  How  many  hired  servants  of  my  father's  have  bread  enough  and  to 
spare,  and  I  perish  with  hunger  ! ' — LUKE  xv.  17. 

was  the  evening  of  a  fine  mild  February 
day.  There  was  promise  in  the  soft  clear 
sky,  even  as  seen  above  the  city ;  and  one 
could  imagine  that  in  country  places  there 
would  be  a  sweet  unfolding  of  blade  and  leaf, 
and  that  the  air  would  be  full  of  brooding 
twitterings,  whispering  of  the  spring.  I  like 
these  mild  bright  days  of  the  early  year,  they  are  so  full 
of  hope.  It  is  the  season  when  we  can  enter  with  better 
heart  upon  any  new  undertaking,  for  we  feel  as  if  nature, 
which  is  a  great  deal  to  us,  though  we  may  not  be  con- 
scious of  it,  is  with  us  in  our  plannings.  It  takes  a  great 
deal  to  depress  one,  I  think,  in  the  first  joy  of  the 
dawning  spring. 

The  West  End  had  filled  for  the  season ;  Parlia- 
ment had  opened  with  stirring  interest ;  and  great 
London  was  busier  than  ever.  The  newspapers  were 

267 


268  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

hard  put  to  it  to  find  space  for  all  they  were  expected 
to  record ;  and  journalists  and  their  assistants  did 
not  eat  the  bread  of  idleness.  Towards  eight  o'clock 
that  evening  two  gentlemen  were  sitting  by  the  open 
window  of  a  house  in  Finsbury  Square.  That  broad- 
shouldered,  fine-looking  man,  with  the  noble  head  and 
the  true  manly  face,  inspiring  immediate  trust  and  love, 
we  know  of  yore :  he  had  changed  a  trifle  perhaps,  grown 
graver,  manlier,  as  life  unfolded  before  him,  and  he  met 
one  by  one  its  duties  and  responsibilities.  But  he  had 
preserved  in  the  great  and  evil  city  a  pure  heart  and  a 
noble  soul,  and  had  verily  kept  himself  unspotted  from 
the  world.  His  companion  was  younger,  of  slimmer, 
more  effeminate  build.  His  face  was  as  sweet  and 
delicately -featured  as  a  woman's,  and  his  hair,  worn 
somewhat  longer  than  usual,  gave  him  something  of  a 
girlish  look.  He  was  well  dressed,  and  had  the  outward 
appearance  of  a  refined  gentleman.  There  was  no  light 
in  the  room,  save  that  thrown  out  by  the  fire,  already, 
however,  burning  low  in  the  grate.  But  the  moon  was 
up,  and  there  was  light  sufficient  for  these  two,  for  they 
were  only  talking  in  a  somewhat  desultory  fashion,  both 
enjoying  the  hour  of  well-earned  leisure  after  a  laborious 
day. 

'  Are  you  going  to  stay  in  all  evening,  Mr.  Bethune  ? ' 
asked  the  younger  of  the  two  after  an  unusually  long 
silence. 

'  Don't  stay  in  for  me,  "Walter.  I  do  not  care  to  go 
out/  answered  the  other,  stretching  himself  in  his  chair. 
'  I  shall  read  or  write  for  an  hour  or  two  if  you  go.' 

'  I  won't  go  if  you  won't.  What  would  I  do  wander- 
ing about  alone  ?  I  am  too  thankful  I  have  a  place  to 
stay  in,'  said  the  other;  and,  suddenly  leaning  forward,  he 
looked  into  the  dark,  kind  face  of  his  friend  with  eyes 


SAVED.    •  269 

brimming  with  love.  'Do  you  know  there  are  times 
when  I  can  hardly  bear  my  own  thankfulness,  when  I 
could  go  down  on  my  knees  to  you  for  saving  me  and 
making  me  what  I  am.' 

'  Hush,  Walter  ! '  The  firm,  strong  hand  touched  his 
slender  fingers  with  a  caressing  touch,  almost  as  one 
might  touch  the  hand  of  a  child.  '  You  promised,  didn't 
you,  to  say  no  more  about  it  ?  Do  you  suppose  it  is  no 
satisfaction  or  reward  to  me  to  see  you  as  you  are,  eh  ? ' 

'  That  may  be,  but  it  makes  my  deep  debt  none  the 
less,  Mr.  Bethune,'  said  the  other  in  his  boybh,  impulsive 
way.  '  And  the  most  extraordinary  thing  of  all  is,  that 
you  should  never  have  asked  me  for  any  account  of  my- 
self;  you  took  me  entirely  on  trust,  but  I've  tried  very 
hard  to  prove  myself  worthy  of  it.' 

'  You  have  proved  yourself  worthy,  my  boy.  Haven't 
I  seen  it  all  ?  Haven't  I  watched  your  earnest  striving, 
your  constant  watching  over  self  ?  ay,  and  loved  you 
for  it.' 

'  I  thought  you  did.  I  knew  from  your  eyes  when  I 
pleased  you.  I  have  had  struggles  with  myself  often, 
for  the  degradation  through  which  I  have  passed  must 
leave  its  traces  behind ;  it  makes  it  harder  for  a  man 
to  be  good.' 

'  It  must  be  so,  but  you  have  nobly  conquered.  I 
held  aloof  many  a  time  when  I  could  have  spoken,  just 
that  you  might  learn  to  be  strong  and  self-reliant,  and 
independent  of  any  help  from  without.  But  your  reward 
is  not  lacking  either.  You  are  making  a  place  for 
yourself.  Mr.  Maynard  thanked  me  only  yesterday  for 
bringing  you  to  the  office.  I  don't  mind  telling  you  now 
that  I  had  a  hard  job  of  it  to  persuade  him  to  give  you 
a  chance ;  but  he  is  thoroughly  satisfied  now,  and,  as  you 
know,  a  few  words  from  him  mean  a  great  deal.' 


270  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

'  I  know.  But  it  is  your  opinion  I  value,  your 
approval  I  covet  and  labour  for.  But,  Mr.  Bethuue, 
why  did  you  never  ask  me  about  my  past  history  ? ' 

'  Because  I  believed  you  would  tell  me  some  day. 
But  perhaps  if  you  had  waited  very  much  longer  I  might 
have  asked  you.' 

'  I  hardly  think  it.  Do  you  know  that  I  deceived  you 
at  the  very  outset  of  our  acquaintance  by  giving  you  a 
false  name  ? ' 

'  I  suspected  it.' 

'  And  yet  you  never  hinted  at  such  a  thing !  Will 
you  let  me  tell  you  it  all  now  ? ' 

'  If  it  will  not  hurt  you,  I  shall  be  glad  to  listen, 
Walter.' 

'  It  will  not  hurt  me  to  tell  you.  It  will  do  me 
good.  I  ought  to  have  told  you  long  ago,  but  I  wanted 
to  win  your  confidence  first,  to  show  you  that  even  a 
poor  lost  wanderer,  such  as  I  was  when  you  found  me 
out,  could  know  the  meaning  of  gratitude,'  said  Walter 
Lovel  with  deep  fervour.  '  But  you  must  not  call  me 
Walter  any  more.  My  name  is  Willie — William  Lorraine.' 

James  Bethune  put  up  his  hand  to  his  face,  and 
turned  his  thankful  eyes  to  the  quiet  sky.  What  deep 
fulness  of  gratitude  and  joy  swelled  in  his  heart  at  that 
moment,  I  cannot  tell  you.  He  had  had  his  moments 
of  torturing  doubt  during  the  last  three  months — doubts 
which  had  kept  him  from  sending  a  word  of  hope  or 
comfort  to  the  heart  of  Beatrice  Lorraine.  I  believe 
it  was  the  fear  lest  certainty  should  prove  his  doubts 
correct,  which  had  kept  him  from  putting  a  direct 
question  to  the  fellow-being  he  had  saved. 

'  I  was  born  in  London,  Mr.  Bethune,'  began  Willie 
Lorraine.  '  My  father  was  a  merchant  in  Bishopsgate 
Street.  Our  house  was  in  Portman  Square.  I  had  one 


SAVED.  271 

sister;  her  name  was  Beatrice;  she  was  fifteen  months 
younger  than  I.  Our  mother  died  when  she  was  four 
years  old.  My  father  was  a  strange  man,  Mr.  Bethune, 
either  passionately  fond  or  passionately  stern.  We 
alternately  feared  and  loved  him.  He  was  a  proud 
man  too,  and  would  not  have  done  a  mean  or  dis- 
honourable thing,  I  believe,  to  save  his  life.  The 
business  firm,  Lorraine  and  Co.,  was  solely  his  own,  left 
him  by  my  grandfather,  who  built  it  up,  and  it  was  a 
mine  of  wealth.  But  I  hated  it  from  the  very  first. 
It  made  me  sick  to  go  into  the  warehouses,  and  have 
bales  of  goods  and  stuffs  pointed  out  to  me  as  if  they 
were  the  objects  of  importance  and  interest  in  the 
world.  I  don't  know  how  I  imbibed  such  a  dislike 
to  the  place,  and  to  the  calling  for  which  my  father, 
I  knew,  destined  me  from  my  birth.  He  was  always 
speaking  to  me  about  the  time  when  I  should  enter 
the  business ;  but,  though  I  dared  not  say  anything,  ] 
told  myself  I  should  never  enter  it.  I  had  other  aims, 
other  ambitions,  if  you  could  call  a  boy's  wayward 
imaginings  by  such  a  lofty  name.  I  was  of  a  dreamy, 
queer  nature  always,  fond  of  books  and  pictures,  and 
that  kind  of  things,  and  I  read  until  I  believed 
myself  a  genius  about  to  be  blighted  by  the  stern 
decrees  of  a  harsh  parent.  I  used  to  tell  Beatrice 
about  it  when  we  were  at  home  together  from  school, 
but  she  used  to  shake  her  gentle  head,  and  tell  me 
to  be  a  good  boy  and  do  as  papa  desired.  Poor  Beatrice ! 
she  was  an  angel  when  she  was  a  child,  only  wise  and 
womanly,  and  deep-thinking  far  beyond  her  years.  I 
often  wonder  what  she  is  like,  and  what  she  is  doing 
now.  Well,  things  went  on  until  I  left  school,  and 
then  I  openly  rebelled.  I  said  if  I  could  not  go  to 
college,  and  follow  after  books  and  such  pursuits,  I  would 


272  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

do  nothing  else.  I  remember  yet  that  scene.  I,  a 
puny  thing,  setting  up  to  my  resolute  father,  and  poor 
Beatrico,  pale  and  trembling,  looking  on,  too  terrified 
to  speak.  She  was  even  more  afraid  of  him  than  I ;  he 
kept  her  at  a  greater  distance.  I  don't  want  to  blame 
him,  for  I  have  no  right  to  judge  a  man  so  infinitely 
better  than  I  can  ever  hope  to  be ;  only  he  did  treat 
his  motherless  girl  very  strangely,  and  she  was  one  who 
needed  love.  She  had  a  strange,  clinging  nature,  which 
could  love  and  suffer  deeply.  I  know  that  now,  looking 
back.  Do  I  weary  you,  Mr.  Bethune  ?  Do  you  care 
that  I  should  go  on  ? ' 

'  Go  on,'  said  James  Bethune  with  the  brevity  of 
intense  interest. 

'  He  paid  no  more  heed  to  my  remonstrating,  to  my 
weak  striving,  than  if  I  had  been  an  infant  crying  for 
it  knew  not  what.  He  bore  me  down  with  the  weight 
of  his  contempt,  he  set  me  aside  as  if  I  had  been  nothing 
at  all,  and  made  arrangements  for  my  being  apprenticed 
in  another  business  house,  in  order,  he  said,  that  I  might 
be  taught  what  it  was  to  serve  strangers.  I  had  no 
alternative  but  to  go.  Of  course  I  had  the  usual  fever 
of  grand  resolves,  such  as  enter  most  boys'  heads  at 
some  period  or  other.  Again  and  again  I  made  up 
my  mind  to  run  away,  but  either  Beatrice  won  me  to 
better  thoughts,  or  the  terrors  and  hardships  of  an 
unknown  future  overwhelmed  me ;  for  I  was  by  nature 
rather  cowardly  and  timid,  and  I  liked  the  good  and 
pleasant  things  of  life.  So  after  all  I  went  quietly  to 
my  irksome  labours.  I  used  to  think  my  father  must 
have  told  my  employers  to  be  hard  on  me,  for  they 
treated  me  with  greater  severity  and  harshness  than  any 
of  the  others.  Every  offence  was  punished,  every  care- 
less act  reported  to  my  father,  so  my  life  was  very  hard. 


SAVED.  273 

I  was  miserable  at  home,  and  miserable  at  business,  and 
so  I  fell  into  bad  company  for  solace.  I  need  not 
enlarge  on  it ;  you  know  how  easy  it  is  for  a  lad  to  go 
astray  in  London,  if  he  has  the  Icist  inclination.  So 
I  learned  to  idle  my  time,  and  drink,  and,  worst  of  all, 
to  gamble  and  bet,  and  spend  the  little  I  had  in 
questionable  ways.  I  was  always  short  of  money,  and 
it  was  to  get  the  wherewithal  to  pay  for  forbidden 
pleasures  that  I  went  to  the  gambling-table  first.  After 
that  I  went  rapidly  down,  and  at  last  committed  the 
crim-3  which  ruined  my  life.  I  owed  a  considerable 
sum  of  money,  which  I  had  borrowed  to  pay  losses  at 
the  gambling-table,  and  they  were  pressing  me  for 
payment.  There  is  not  much  pity  or  sympathy  among 
those  who  lead  a  man  astray.  He  is  far  reduced  when 
he  has  only  his  evil  associates  to  depend  on  for  aid. 
So  I  was  tempted.  I  got  hold  of  a  cheque-book 
belonging  to  my  employers,  filled  it  up  for  the  amount, 
thirty  pounds, — not  a  deadly  sum,  but  the  crime  was 
the  same,  and  as  I  forged  the  name  I  got  payment 
without  difficulty,  the  more  really  as  I  had  been  of  tea 
trusted  with  messages  for  and  with  money  to  the  bank 
before ;  as  I  was  a  Lorraine,  they  believed  me  honest. 
In  a  day  or  two  the  exposure  came.  I  was  a  novice 
in  these  matters,  and  I  had  made  no  provision  for  the 
consequences.  For  my  father's  sake  I  was  not  brought 
to  justice,  I  was  not  punished  for  my  ^rime  in  a  public 
court.  But  I  was  sent  forth  into  the  world  an  outcast 
and  a  felon,  without  character  or  any  means  of  earning 
a  meal.  I  cannot  look  back  on  that  time  when  the 
full  consequences  of  my  wicked  act  rushed  upon  me. 
It  unmans  me  even  yet.' 

He  paused,  for  his  voice  broke,  his  hands  shook,  the 
veins    on    his    forehead  stood    out    like    knotted  cords. 


274  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

Again  James  Bethune's  firm  hand  closed  over  his,  with 
that  infinite  touch  of  pity  which  could  calm  him  in  his 
wildest  moods. 

'  So  I  found  myself  in  the  streets  of  London,  homeless, 
friendless,  penniless — such  was  the  awful  punishment' 
for  my  sin.  I  do  not  blame  my  father.  I  had  been  an 
annoyance  and  troflble  to  him  all  my  life,  and  I  could 
not  expect  him  to  forgive  or  condone  open  disgrace.  He 
disowned  me,  and  from  that  hour  to  this  I  have  never 
seen  his  face.  Naturally  I  went  to  those  who  had 
helped  to  bring  me  to  such  ruin ;  but  they  shrugged 
their  shoulders,  and  would  do  nothing  for  me.  Now 
that  I  was  penniless  I  was  of  no  use  or  account  to  them, 
they  could  not  concern  themselves  with  my  fate.  One 
advised  me  to  go  and  beg  my  father's  pardon,  and  ask 
him  to  take  me  back.  I  could  have  killed  him  for  the 
suggestion,  it  so  nearly  maddened  me.  Then  I  would 
cheerfully  have  died  rather  than  look  upon  my  father's 
face.  Will  you  believe  that  their  callousness  was  my 
cure  ?  It  gave  me  such  a  keen,  unquenchable  disgust  at 
them  and  their  ways,  that  I  never  looked  at  them  again ; 
and  then  and  there  I  made  up  my  mind  to  redeem  myself, 
to  begin  a  new  and  a  better  .life,  and  from  the  depths 
arise  a  new  man,  who  might  perhaps  one  day  hold  up  his 
head  in  the  world  with  conscious  honour.  Oh,  there  were 
no  noble  and  high  resolutions  which  did  not  visit  me  at 
that  time,  but  they  dwindled  away  one  by  one.  You 
know  a  little  of  life  in  cities,  of  its  fearful  competition, 
its  overcrowding,  its  relentless  pushing  aside  of  the  weak 
and  the  incompetent,  its  cruel  crushing  of  many  an 
earnest  effort.  Could  there  be  any  place  in  London  for 
such  as  I  ?  Could  any  man  be  found  generous  or  God-like 
enough  to  take  me  as  I  was,  to  give  me  a  chance  to 
redeem  myself  ?  In  all  London  I  found  only  one,  and 


SAVED.  275 

he  is  here.  Until  I  met  him  what  was  my  life  ?  1 
dare  not  begin  to  recount  its  vicissitudes.  I  could 
make  you  laugh  and  weep  by  turns,  and  I  should 
unman  myself.  It  will  rest  just  now  ;  some  day,  when 
the  hopeful  present  has  taken  the  sting  from  that  dark 
past,  I  may  tell  it,  but  not  yet.  Only  one  thing  I 
entreat  you  to  believe,  my  friend,  God-sent  in  my  last 
extremity :  I  have  toiled,  and  waited,  and  prayed,  and 
starved,  but  in  these  past  five  years  I  have  done  no  action 
which  can  rise  up  and  condemn  me  in  my  dying  hour.' 

'Thank  God  for  that,  my  friend,  thank  God!'  fell 
with  deep  emotion  from  James  Bethune's  lips.  Such  an 
assurance  was  far  beyond  anything  he  had  dared  to  hope 
for.  What  a  glad  message  to  carry  across  the  Border  to 
the  faithful  woman's  heart,  hungering  even  for  the  bare 
tidings  of  life  ! 

'  Months  after  I  left  my  father's  house,  I  ventured  back 
to  Portman  Square,  because  my  heart  was  breaking  for  a 
sight  of  Beatrice.  It  was  to  find  it  empty,  and  on 
inquiry  I  learned  that  my  father  had  relinquished  his 
business,  and  had  bought  a  place  in  the  south  of  Scotland, 
near  where  my  mother  was  born.  For  aught  I  know 
they  may  be  there  yet.  Some  day,  perhaps,  when  I  have 
established  myself  more  firmly  in  this  blessed  way  of  life, 
I  may  journey  there,  and  ask  to  be  forgiven.  I  feel  as 
if  I  could  kneel  down  now  and  kiss  my  father's  feet, 
remembering  only  his  love  and  goodness  to  me.  Of 
Beatrice,  my  darling,  I  scarcely  dare  to  think.' 

It  was  a  mighty  effort  for  James  Bethune  to  restrain 
himself,  but  he  did  it.  Not  yet ;  a  little  longer  before 
he  could  reveal  himself.  But  the  consummation  for 
which  he  had  longed,  and  so  ardently  prayed  for,  was 
coming  very  near. 

'  Walter, — I  like  the  old  name ;  I  think  we  will  keep 


276  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

it  a  little  longer, — there  is  no  happier  man  in  London 
than  you  have  made  me  to-night/  he  said  when  he  was 
able  to  speak.  '  Please  God,  there  is  a  length  of  useful 
and  honourable  days  in  store  yet,  and  your  deepest  heart 
desires  will  be  fulfilled.  Come  what  may,  we  are  friends 
for  life.' 

'For  life!'  repeated  Willie  Lorraine,  as  their  hands 
met  in  the  grasp  of  love  and  fealty ;  then  there  was  a 
long,  deep  silence.  Many  thoughts  thronged  upon  the 
hearts  of  both — thoughts  which  could  find  no  utterance. 
Those  of  James  Bethune  were  strangely  commingled, 
and  for  a  space  he  had  forgotten  his  companion.  He 
saw  himself  leading  back  the  wanderer  to  his  father's 
house  ;  he  pictured  that  blessed  reunion  ;  he  saw  the 
glory  on  the  sweet  face  of  Beatrice  Lorraine. 

'  What  are  you  thinking  of,  Mr.  Bethune  ? '  said  Willie's 
voice,  breaking  in  upon  his  reverie. 

'  Thinking  ?     I  was  thinking  of  Scotland,  Walter.' 

'  Are  you  home-sick  for  it  ?  I  have  h^ard  that  the 
Scotch  never  forget  or  grow  cold  to  their  own  country. 
Are  you  longing  to  be  back  ? ' 

'  Yes,  I  should  like  to  go.  I  have  not  seen  my  brother 
for  nine  months.  Possibly  I  may  take  a  run  down  some 
night  soon,  returning  next  day.  Well,  shall  we  have  our 
stroll  now  ? '  he  added,  hastening  to  change  the  subject, 
lest  Willie  might  ask  questions  difficult  to  parry.  '  It  is 
a  glorious  night.  Come,  we  can  talk  outside  as  well  as 
here.  I  want  to  speak  of  your  future.  I  wish  and 
expect  great  things  of  you,  my  boy.  You  must  not 
disappoint  me.' 

'  Whatever  you  wish  me  to  do,  I  shall  endeavour  with 
my  whole  heart,'  answered  the  young  man,  looking  up 
into  the  face  of  his  friend  as  a  scholar  might  have  looked 
into  the  face  of  a  revered  and  beloved  master.  The  dis- 


SAVED.  277 

parity  in  rears  between  them  was  very  slight,  yet  in 
James  Bethune's  manner  towards  his  friend  there  was  a 
kind,  careful,  elder  brother  touch  which  made  that 
disparity  seem  more  marked.  The  influence  he  had 
secured  over  the  wayward  heart  enabled  him  to  mould 
Willie  Lorraine  almost  as  he  willed ;  one  day  he  would 
reap  the  reward  for  his  deep  anxiety  and  unselfish, 
brotherly  care. 

On  the  Friday  of  that  week  James  Bethune  went  to 
Scotland.  He  had  prepared  Willie  for  his  going,  so  that 
he  looked  upon  it  as  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world, 
and  did  not  associate  his  journey  with  the  story  he  had 
unfolded  to  him.  It  was  with  a  strange  commingling  of 
emotions  that  James  Bethune  undertook  his  mission,  for 
his  journey  partook  of  the  nature  of  a  mission.  His 
thoughts  were  almost  wholly  concentrated  on  the  master 
of  Nethercleugh ;  for,  unless  his  heart  could  be  touched, 
the  beautiful  dream  in  which  he  had  indulged  would 
prove  only  a  bitter  disappointment.  But  at  least  he 
could  give  relief  and  joy  to  her,  of  whom  he  dared  not 
now  permit  himself  to  think,  so  intolerable  had  his 
unutterable  longings  become. 

It  was  a  fine,  clear,  bracing  afternoon  when  he  arrived 
at  Lockerbie,  and  though  the  train  for  Lochbroom  was  in 
waiting,  he  set  out  to  walk  through  the  fields.  He 
wanted  the  freshness  of  the  spring  air  about  him  ;  he 
needed  some  such  draught  to  cool  the  fever  in  his  veins. 
He  wondered  at  his  own  excitement — at  the  wild  rest- 
lessness which  possessed  him.  Thoughts  whirled  madly 
through  his  brain,  disdaining  to  be  curbed,  or  to  own 
any  sway  but  their  own  fantasies.  At  the  entrance 
to  Lochbroom  he  hesitated  a  moment,  wavering  whether 
to  proceed  directly  to  Nethercleugh,  or  wait  first  at  the 
manse.  It  was  only  a  brief  hesitation  ;  in  another 


278  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

moment  he  was  striding  along  the  path  by  the  burn  into 
the  Nethercleugh  woods.  He  had  no  eyes  for  the  sweet 
budding  beauty  all  about  him — snowdrop,  primrose,  and 
anemone  nestling  among  the  cool  green  were  passed  un- 
heeded ;  the  young  green  leaves,  the  fresh  sturdy  bladesburst- 
ing  every  where,  were  of  no  account  to  him.  Yet,  at  another 
time,  all  these  would  have  rejoiced  his  heart,  and  filled 
him  with  deep,  quiet  satisfaction  ;  he  had  always  loved 
the  spring.  The  way  seemed  longer  than  when  he  had 
walked  it  with  Sandy  that  memorable  summer  evening 
nearly  a  year  ago,  and  he  was  glad  when  the  grey  old 
house  came  in  sight.  Yet  he  approached  it  with  almost 
hesitating  feet,  not  knowing  with  what  words  to  tell  his 
errand,  now  he  had  arrived  at  his  journej's  end.  The 
servant  who  answered  his  summons  recognised  him,  and 
made  haste  to  usher  him  in.  He  was  shown  to  the 
library,  and  there  left  for  some  time  alone. 

At  length  the  door  was  quietly  opened,  and  he  knew 
Beatrice  Lorraine  was  in  the  room.  When  he  turned 
his  eyes  towards  her,  he  saw  the  sudden  start,  the 
wavering  light  in  the  lustrous  eyes,  the  quick  rush  of 
colour  to  the  fair  cheek. 

'  It  is  you  ! '  she  said,  recovering  her  composure  in 
a  moment,  and  advancing  with  outstretched  hand. 
'  Forgive  my  surprise.  Kitty  said  Mr.  Bethune  was 
in  the  library,  and  I  naturally  expected  to  see  your 
brother.' 

He  took  the  slim  white  hand  in  his  earnest  clasp,  his 
eyes  down-bent  themselves  on  her  face;  and  that  was 
all.  He  had  no  word  wherein  to  greet  her,  only  his 
heart  beat  with  a  hungry,  passionate  pain.  It  was  as  if 
part  of  himself  and  of  his  life  were  at  his  side,  and  he 
dared  not  claim  it. 

'  When  did  you  come  ? '    she  asked,  moving  a  little 


SAVED.  279 

away   from   him,  and  touching  with   tender  finger  the 
white  bloom  of  a  hyacinth  in  a  glass  on  the  table. 

'  I  came  to-day.  I  have  walked  from  Lockerbie,'  he 
answered  quickly.  '  How  are  you  ?  I  think  you  are 
changed.' 

'  I  have  had  some  anxiety  of  late.  Papa  has  not  been 
well  I  am  afraid  he  will  not  be  able  to  see  you  to- 
day/ 

His  eyes  never  for  a  moment  left  her  face ;  he  seemed 
powerless  to  help  himself.  Till  this  moment  I  think  he 
had  not  quite  realized  what  it  is  to  love  one  woman  with 
a  life's  love.  He  was  only  awakening  to  its  watchful- 
ness, its  deep  interest,  its  yearning  care,  which  is  half 
pain,  half  joy.  He  knew  her  changed.  Her  face  was 
worn  a  little  and  sad ;  there  was  a  listless  air  about  her, 
as  if  she  had  grown  weary  of  hope  deferred.  She  was 
thinner  too ;  the  figure  in  the  plain  sweeping  blue  gown 
was  very  slender,  and  looked  different  from  that  day 
when  she  had  worn  the  white  robe  with  the  violets  iu 
her  belt. 

'  I  trust  there  is  nothing  seriously  the  matter  with 
Mr.  Lorraine  ? ' 

'We  cannot  say.  Doctor  Clarke  gives  it  no  name. 
It  is  as  if  he  had  lost  his  hold  on  life.  I  think  what  I 
told  you  of  has  borne  him  down  at  last.  How  have  you 
been  in  London  ? ' 

He  felt  the  wistfulness  of  her  look,  he  knew  what 
question  her  deep  eyes  asked,  and  he  thanked  God  in  his 
heart  for  the  message  he  had  brought.  '  Has  he  changed, 
do  you  think  ? '  he  asked  abruptly.  '  Do  you  think  his 
heart  has  grown  more  tender  over  the  old  sorrow  ?  Does 
he  ever  speak  of  your  brother  ? ' 

'  Not  to  me,  but  I  have  heard  him  call  him  by  his 
name,  and  always  in  accents  of  tenderness  and  love.  I 


280  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

sometimes  think  that  if  it  were  possible  that  Willie  could 
ever  be  restored  all  would  be  well,  everything  would 
come  right.  I  think  papa  has  grown  hopeless  too,  now 
that  he  is  sure  it  is  too  late.  I  suppose  you  have  never 
had  any  clue  ?  Soon  after  you  went  to  London  I  used 
to  live  in  half  expectation  of  hearing  something,  but  not 
lately.' 

'  But  you  did  not  think  the  blame  mine — that  I  was 
making  no  effort  ? ' 

'  No,  only  London  is  such  a  great  place  ;  and  you  have 
much  to  do,  your  brother  tells  me.  Oh  no,  I  never 
blamed  you.' 

'  I  was  not  idle,  I  did  my  best ;  and  when  I  was 
getting  very  hopeless,  God  helped  me.  He  sent  him  to 
me,  Miss  Lorraine.' 

No  word  fell  from  the  white  lips  of  Beatrice  Lorraine, 
but  her  great,  solemn  eyes  uplifted  to  his  face  were  wide 
and  almost  anguished  in  their  pleading. 

'  Oh,  tell  me !  Is  he  found  ?  I  cannot  bear  sus- 
pense !  How  and  where  is  he  ?  Is  he  not  irredeemably 
lost  ? '  she  whispered  at  last,  and  her  trembling  hand 
sought  the  table  for  support. 

'  No,  he  is  well,  and  happy,  I  was  about  to  add,  but 
he  has  much  to  regret,  much  to  long  for  and  desire.  But 
if  ever  a  man  strove  to  redeem  the  past,  to  atone  for  the 
error  of  his  youth,  he  is  doing  it  now.  He  is  on  the 
way  to  make  for  himself  an  honourable  position  in  the 
world.' 

Joy,  wonder,  incredulous  surprise  were  expressed  on 
the  face  of  Beatrice  Lorraine,  as  these  words  fell  upon 
her  ears.  '  It  is  too  blessed  to  be  true.  I  feel  as  if  I 
dared  not  believe  it.' 

'  It  is  true.  It  is  what  I  came  here  to-day  to  say. 
Will  you  sit  down  now  and  let  me  tell  y^u  as  briefly  as 


SAVED.  281 

possible  how  it  happened  ? '  he  said  very  gently,  for  he 
saw  that  her  nerves  were  highly  strung,  and  that  her 
strength  seemed  spent.  She  took  the  chair  he  placed 
for  her,  and  listened  with  strained  ears,  while  he  briefly 
recounted  the  events  of  the  last  five  months.  His  telling 
of  the  story  was  characteristic  of  himself.  He  spared 
her  to  the  utmost,  touching  very  lightly  on  the  most 
painful  parts,  and  lightest  of  all  on  his  own  share  in 
his  deliverance.  But  she  understood.  Her  face  grew 
more  earnest,  her  eyes  shone  as  she  listened,  there  was 
something  more  in  their  depths  than  interest  or  even 
gratitude,  only  he  did  not  see  it. 

'  And  you  took  him  home  ?  He  is  with  you  now  ? ' 
she  repeated  slowly.  '  You  did  all  this  for  an  utter 
stranger  ?  God  must  reward  you — we  never  can  ! '  Her 
voice  broke,  and  she  covured  her  face  with  her  hands. 
He  could  not  bear  the  sight,  though  he  knew  they  were 
not  tears  of  sorrow.  He  took  a  step  nearer,  and  then 
drew  back,  knowing  he  would  forget  himself.  Oh,  this 
was  a  hard  thing,  to  be  in  the  presence  of  the  woman  he 
loved,  whose  soul  answered  to  his,  yet  to  feel  that  he 
dared  not  speak  !  Would  it  always  be  thus  ?  Must  he 
carry  with  him  to  life's  end  this  deep  heritage  of  pain  ? 
"Would  this  hunger  of  the  heart  embitter  existence  always, 
taking  the  sunshine  from  every  good  gift  ? 

'  If  you  would  compose  yourself,'  he  said  in  a  low 
voice,  '  I  should  like  to  talk  this  over  a  little.  Willie 
does  not  know  I  am  here,  he  does  not  even  know  I  am 
aware  of  your  place  of  abode.  I  have  as  long  a  tale  to 
tell  him  as  he  had  to  tell  me.' 

He  smiled,  and  she  looked  up  with  an  answering 
smile,  so  radiant  and  beautiful  and  glad  that  her  face 
seemed  to  shine. 

'  1  am  listening.     What  would  you  suggest  ? 
24 


282  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

'If  you  think  Mr.  Lorraine  would  see  him,  would 
receive  him  with  joy,  I  should  say,  bring  him  at  once. 
But  if  you  have  any  doubt,  I  would  rather  wait.  I 
would  not  for  worlds  that  Walter's  heart  should  receive 
such  a  blow  just  now.' 

'  Oh,  I  am  sure  he  will  take  him.  I  could  not  tell 
you  why  I  think  so,  only  I  feel  sure  he  will,'  she  said, 
clasping  her  hands  together,  and  beginning  to  walk  up 
and  down  the  room.  'I  cannot  be  still,  Mr.  Bethune, 
my  heart  is  so  overcharged.  Willie  alive  and  well,  and 
living  an  upright  life !  Oh,  I  did  not  dream  that  God 
would  be  so  good !  It  is  so  much  more  than  I  ever  dared 
to  hope  for,  even  in  dreams.  Do  you  think  him  un- 
changed to  me  still  ? ' 

'  May  I  tell  you  what  he  said  ?  I  can  remember  his 
exact  words,  because  they  sank  into  my  heart.  He  said, 
"  Some  day,  perhaps,  when  I  have  established  myself 
more  firmly  in  this  blessed  way  of  life,  I  may  journey 
there  "  (to  your  home  he  meant),  "  and  ask  to  be  forgiven. 
I  feel  as.  if  I  could  kneel  down  now  and  kiss  my  father's 
feet,  remembering  only  his  love  and  goodness  to  me.  Of 
Beatrice,  my  darling,  I  scarcely  dare  to  think."  May  we 
not  hope  for  great  things,  when  we  think  of  the  spirit 
which  prompted  such  words  as  these  ? ' 

Beatrice  Lorraine  was  silent  a  moment,  her  eyes  fixed 
on  the  western  window,  where  the  sunset  glow  was  red- 
dening with  a  wondrous  light. 

If  James  Bethune  had  needed  or  wished  for  any 
reward  for  what  he  had  done,  he  found  it  in  the  expres- 
sion on  her  face. 

She  turned  her  head,  and  their  eyes  met. 

'  I  would  thank  you  if  I  could,'  she  said,  simply  as  a 
child,  with  a  look  such  as  he  had  seen  many  times  of 
late  on  her  brother's  face, 


SAVED.  283 

'  I  need  no  thanks,'  he  said  somewhat  hurriedly. 
'  Now,  what  is  to  be  done  ?  I  cannot  stay,  for  I  have  to 
see  my  brother,  and  catch  the  London  train  to-night. 
Are  we  to  risk  it  or  not  ?  Shall  I  bring  him  down  ? ' 

'  Yes.' 

'  Then  you  will  prepare  the  way,  and  if  you  have  any 
fear  of  his  reception  you  will  let  me  know.  A  harsh 
word  might  undo  the  good  we  have  seen.  We  dare  not 
expose  him  to  it  yet.  He  must  be  aided  in  his  struggles 
after  a  better  life.  Poor  lad !  my  heart  is  wrung  for  him 
often.  Those  who  have  lived  happy,  untempted  lives 
know  nothing  of  such  agonies  as  he  has  endured.' 

'  I  will  let  you  know/  she  answered  quietly. 

'  And  I  will  let  you  know  when  he  will  come.'  said 
James  Bethune,  turning  to  go. 

'  But  you  will  come  with  him  ? '  Her  upward  glance 
was  timid  and  wistful ;  he  could  not  bear  those  speaking 
eyes,  they  robbed  him  of  his  self-control  and  stern 
resolve. 

'  If  you  wish  it,'  he  said  almost  coldly. 

'  I  do  wish  it.' 

'  Then  I  will  come.     Good-bye.' 

'  Good-bye  till  then.     God  bless  you ! ' 

He  had  often  heard  the  phrase,  but  falling  from  these 
lips  it  had  a  double  meaning,  a  double  sweetness. 

'  God  bless  you,  Beatrice  Lorraine,  for  ever  and  ever ! ' 
he  said,  and  wrung  her  hand  like  a  vise. 

The  next  moment  he  was  gone. 


CHAPTEE  XXL 


RECOMPENSE. 

A  man  in  all  the  hidden  sense 

That  gives  the  grand  old  word  its  might; 

A  man  who  finds  his  recompense, 
In  knowing  he  has  done  the  right.' 

'S  anything  troubling  you,  Mr.  Bethune?' 
'  Why  do  you  ask,  Walter  ? ' 
'Because  you  have  not  heen  like  your- 
self since  you  went  to  Scotland.' 
'Have  I  not?    I  believe  you  are  right.   Yes, 
something  is  troubling  me  very  much.     How 
long  is  it  since  I  was  down.     Only  a  week, 
isn't  it  ? ' 

'  Ten  days.  Couldn't  you  tell  me  what  it  is  ?  I  don't 
suppose  I  could  help  you,  only  I  know  by  experience 
that  things  never  seem  so  bad  when  another  shares  them,' 
said  Willie  Lorraine.  '  Don't  you  know  how  often  you 
have  relieved  my  mind  of  burdening  thought  ?  Of 
course  I  could  never  be  to  you  what  you  have  been 
to  me;  but  perhaps  the  very  telling  of  it  would  give 
relief/ 

284 


RECOMPENSE.  285 

'  I  know  it  would,  but  I  cannot  tell  you  yet.  You 
will  trust  me  a  little  longer,  altogether  if  need  be, 
Walter  ? ' 

'  Why  should  I  not  ?  I  would  go  to  the  utmost  ends 
of  the  earth  if  you  bade  me,  without  asking  a  question,' 
said  Willie  Lorraine  with  the  eagerness  of  his  great  love. 

'  It  is  a  boundless  trust  you  have  given  me,  Walter,' 
said  James  Bethune.  '  My  boy,  I  will  not  betray  it. 
I  will  never  be  less  to  you  than  I  have  been,  but  more 
as  the  years  go  on,  knitting  us  the  more  closely  to  each 
other.' 

Willie  Lorraine  looked  earnestly  into  the  dark,  true 
face  of  his  friend,  wondering  to  see  him  thus  moved. 
He  did  not  know  that  hope  was  being  slowly  quenched 
in  that  anxious  heart,  and  that  it  had  made  its  vow 
concerning  him,  to  stand  in  the  place  of  father  and 
brother  in  one,  because  the  ties  of  kinship  had  failed. 

At  that  moment  the  maid  entered  the  room  with  a 
letter,  which  she  handed  to  James  Bethune. 

'  For  you,  sir.  It  came  at  four  o'clock.  Sorry  it  was 
forgotten,'  she  said,  and  made  haste  to  leave  the  room,  as 
if  dreading  a  reproof.  He  took  it  eagerly,  glanced  at  the 
handwriting  and  the  postmark ;  then  his  face  flushed,  and 
Willie  Lorraine  saw  the  firm  hand  tremble  as  he  broke 
the  seal.  He  took  a  newspaper  from  the  table,  and  held 
it  before  his  eyes,  so  that  his  friend  might  read  undis- 
turbed. After  what  seemed  a  very  long  time  to  Willie 
Lorraine,  James  Bethune  spoke,  in  a  low,  tremulous,  eager 
voice,  quite  unlike  his  own. 

'  Walter '  (he  always  called  him  yet  by  the  old  name, 
the  name  by  which  he  was  known  to  the  world),  '  put 
down  your  paper  now.  I  have  a  great  deal  to  tell  you. 
This  letter  has  removed  the  seal  from  my  lips.  Do  you 
know  that  handwriting  ? ' 


286  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

Willie  Lorraine  took  the  proffered  envelope,  and  looked 
at  it  for  a  moment  with  startled  eyes.  Ay,  he  knew  it 
Even  once  seen,  that  firm,  clear,  characteristic  handwrit- 
ing would  be  easily  remembered. 

'  What  strange  mystery  is  all  this  ? '  he  asked  with 
paling  lips.  *  This  is  the  handwriting  of  my  sister 
Beatrice.  How  did  it  come  here  ?  Do  you  know  her  ? 
Why  have  you  hidden  so  many  things  from  me  ? ' 

'You  will  know  soon,  Walter,'  answered  James 
Bethune  with  a  rarely  beautiful  smile.  '  Eead  the  letter 
now/ 

Thus  Beatrice  Lorraine's  letter  ran : — 

'  NETHERCLETTGH,  LOCHBROOM, 
16th  February  1881. 

'  DEAR  MR.  BETHUNE, — I  could  not  write  before  to-day, 
because  I  have  had  no  opportunity  of  broaching  the 
subject  to  papa.  We  spoke  of  Willie  to-day ;  but  I  did 
not  tell  him  what  you  told  me.  But  I  see  his  heart  is 
yearning  over  him,  and  that  he  has  given  up  all  hope  of 
seeing  him  again.  I  said  to  him  that  if  he  heard  of  him 
being  yet  alive,  and  doing  well,  would  he  not  ask  him  to 
come  back.  "  Why  torture  me  with  such  fancies  ? "  he 
answered.  "  There  is  no  possibility  of  such  a  thing."  I 
think  you  should  come  down  with  Willie  at  once.  If 
possible,  I  will  prepare  papa ;  but  he  is  very  weak,  and 
his  moods  are  so  uncertain,  I  may  have  no  opportunity. 
I  believe  it  might  be  well  and  safe  to  trust  all  to  a 
meeting.  You  can  talk  it  over.  Please  give  Willie  the 
enclosed,  and  believe  me,  yours  gratefully  and  sincerely, 

'  BEATRICE  LORRAINE.' 

'  I  do  not  understand  it  yet,'  repeated  Willie  Lorraine 
trembling  with  excitement.  'Please  explain  it  to  me, 


RECOMPENSE.  287 

Mr.  Bethune.     How  do  you  know  my  sister  Beatrice  ? 
How  does  she  know  I  am  here  ? ' 

In  a  few  words,  but  concisely  and  clearly,  James 
Bethune  explained  the  whole  matter,  his  friend  listening 
with  that  absorbing  interest  with  which  we  await  some 
vital  issue. 

'  But  how  have  you  kept  it  so  long  ?  Why  didn't  you 
tell  me  ?  You  knew  my  consuming  anxiety  about  her  ! ' 
he  exclaimed  impetuously. 

'  Don't  you  understand  I  wanted  to  know  your  father's 
state  of  mind  ?  I  would  not  have  you  go  home,  Walter, 
unless  a  welcome  awaited  you.' 

'  Kind,  thoughtful,  considerate  in  this  as  in  every- 
thing ! '  exclaimed  Walter ;  and  then,  opening  his  sister's 
letter  to  him,  he  quite  broke  down. 

Wisely  James  Bethune  let  his  emotion  have  its  vent, 
knowing  calmer  moments  would  soon  come. 

'  What  is  to  be  done,  then  ? '  asked  Walter,  flinging  up 
his  head  at  length.  '  Beatrice  prays  me  to  come  down, 
but  I  will  be  guided  by  you.' 

'  Nay,  not  now.  Let  your  heart  guide  you,  Walter,' 
said  James  Bethune  with  a  sunny  smile.  '  What  does  it 
say?' 

'  You  do  not  need  to  ask.  I  am  longing,  yet  reluctant 
to  go.  There  is  so  much  to  be  forgiven.  I  shall  be 
humbled  to  the  very  dust  before  them.  Since  I  have 
been  with  you  I  have  seen  my  past  in  a  different  light. 
It  seems  more  heinous  to  me  now  than  it  did  even  when 
I  was  struggling  in  the  depths.' 

'  Ah,  but  there  is  a  fine  hope  with  it  all  now,  Walter. 
After  this  ordeal  is  over,  you  will  bury  the  past,  and  I 
know  they  will  gladly  allow  you  to  do  it.  There  is  no 
good  in  morbid  dwelling  on  evil  days.  What  you  have 
to  do  now  is  to  go  forward  with  a  strong  heart  and 


288  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

a  noble  purpose  in  the  good  way.  You  are  done 
with  the  old,  and  you  must  le  done  with  it  wholly 
and  for  ever.' 

'  What  strength  you  give  me ! '  exclaimed  "Willie 
Lorraine  gratefully.  'With  your  guidance  and  love  I 
feel  as  if  I  could  truly  be  and  do  good.  Whatever  the 
future  may  hold  of  what  is  worthy  for  me,  I  shall  owe  it 
to  you,' 

'Nay,  Walter,  let  us  not  forget  that  divine,  unseen 
Friend  who  is  ever  with  us,  even  when  we  know  it  not,' 
said  James  Bethune  reverently.  'Human  ties,  human 
props,  are  very  sweet,  but  not  all-sufficient,  my  boy,  as 
you  will  learn  more  and  more  as  the  years  t  roll  on 
Well,  what  plan  have  we  ?  Does  not  your  heart  bid 
you  go  at  once,  to-night,  if  that  were  possible  ?  I 
thought  so.  Well,  I  shall  walk  over  to  Mr.  Maynard'a 
residence  and  tell  him.  Nay,  don't  start;  I  shall  bo 
wary  and  prudent,  being  as  jealous  over  your  interests  as 
you  could  be.  If  he  spares  us,  we  shall  go  to  Scotland 
to-morrow.' 

'  You  will  let  me  walk  with  you  to  the  door  ?  I  could 
not  rest  in  the  house.  Oh,  Mr.  Bethune,  this  is  a 
strange  unrest  which  possesses  me !  I  cannot  realize 
what  has  happened.  I  have  so  long  been  alone  in  the 
world,  I  cannot  believe  that  there  is  a  home  waiting  for 
me,  where  I  shall  see  those  I  have  lost  so  long.' 

'  It  will  be  a  blessed  reality,  please  God,  to-morrow, 
Walter.  When  shall  I  learn  to  utter  the  new  name  ? 
I  am  afraid  you  will  always  be  Walter  Lovel  to  me. 
There  is  one  thing  I  would  ask,  that  you  will  not  reveal 
to  them  the  whole  bitterness  of  these  dark  years;  it 
would  wring  your  sister's  heart.  She  broods  upon 
things,  Walter ;  it  would  sadden  and  pain  her  for  very 
long.' 


RECOMPENSE.  289 

'  Is  there  any  one  for  whom  you  have  not  ca're  and 
thought,  Mr.  Bethune?'  asked  Willie  Lorraine  impulsively. 
'  Do  not  fear ;  there  is  one  theme  which  I  shall  find  so 
absorbing  and  exhaustless  that  I  shall  scarcely  have 
room  to  enlarge  upon  any  other.' 

'  What  is  that  ? ' 

'  Your  love  and  goodness  ! ' 

'  Hush,  boy  !  You  make  too  much  of  it.  I  have  had 
my  deep  reward.  If  you  had  seen  the  look  on  your 
sister's  face  when  I  told  her  the  good  news,  you  would 
know  I  had  had  my  reward.' 

'  It  seems  so  strange  to  hear  you  speak  of  my  sister, 
to  think  you  have  so  lately  looked  upon  her  face.  Is 
she  not  beautiful,  Mr.  Bethune  ? ' 

James  Bethune  did  not  at  once  reply.  His  eyes  were 
fixed  on  the  dancing  flames,  and  it  s»emed  as  if  he  had 
forgotten  his  companion.  Then  slowly  a  great  light 
dawned  upon  the  mind  of  Willie  Lorraine.  But  he  was 
silent,  not  daring  to  intrude  uninvited  upon  that  sacred 
silence. 

Next  day  these  two  travelled  to  Scotland  by  the 
morning  train.  Willie  Lorraine  was  intensely  excited, 
as  was  natural ;  alternately  full  of  hope  and  joy,  and 
then  downcast  and  sorely  weighed  down  by  the  thought 
of  his  unworthy  past,  and  the  haunting  fear  lest  he  should 
find  them  changed.  He  spoke  most  of  Beatrice,  but  it 
was  of  his  father  his  heart  was  full.  It  was  against  him 
he  had  most  grievously  sinned,  and  sometimes,  when  a 
memory  of  his  old,  stern,  unrelenting  judging  swept  darkly 
across  his  heart,  he  could  almost  have  wished  himself 
back  in  London.  James  Bethune  read  these  thoughts 
like  an  open  page,  but  said  little,  only  prayed  that  all 
might  be  well.  As  they  neared  their  journey's  end,  it 
was  as  if  some  unseen  hand  had  laid  a  tender  touch  on 

25 


290  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

his  heart,  calming  its  restlessness,  and  making  him 
strong,  self-reliant,  quiet  for  the  coming  ordeal. 

'  We  can  get  a  train  at  Lockerbie  in  a  few  minutes,  I 
believe,'  said  James  Bethune,  as  the  train,  nearing  the 
junction,  slackened  pace.  '  But  I  think  the  walk  would 
do  us  good  ;  it  is  scarcely  six  miles.  "What  do  you  say?' 

'  Yes  ;  let  us  walk.     There  is  no  hurry,  is  there  ? ' 

'  Are  you  feeling  a  trifle  reluctant  now,  Walter  ? ' 
asked  his  friend  with  a  smile.  '  Never  mind,  all  will  be 
well.  I  feel  strangely  at  rest  now  that  it  is  coming  so 
near.' 

'  Without  you  I  should  never  have  come.  My  heart 
would  have  failed  me  long  ago,'  said  Walter  grate- 
fully, and  just  then  the  train  steamed  into  the  station. 
A  number  of  passengers  alighted  and  they  made  their 
way  through  the  throng  outside  the  gates;  and  there 
a  footman  in  livery  stepped  up  to  James  Bethune. 

'  Mr.  Bethune,  sir,  and  friend  for  Nethercleugh  ? '  he 
said  courteously. 

Involuntarily  the  two  looked  at  each  other,  then 
James  Bethune  nodded  and  took  his  companion  by  the 
arm.  '  They  have  sent  to  meet  us  ;  a  good  omen,  Walter. 
Keep  up  your  heart.' 

It  was  a  close  carriage  drawn  by  a  pair  of  fine  high- 
stepping  roans ;  it  was  as  if  the  master  of  Nethercleugh 
desired  to  do  all  honour  to  the  expected  guests.  Not  a 
word  was  spoken  during  the  half-hour  of  their  drive; 
but  when  they  swept  through  the  lodge  gates  James 
Bethune  turned  to  his  companion  with  a  smile.  '  Look 
up  and  about-  you,  Walter ;  this  is  home.' 

'  I  cannot,  Mr.  Bethune.  See,  I  am  trembling  in 
every  limb !  I  could  not  bear  this  much  longer.  Oh, 
I  wish  it  was  all  over  !  Am  I  not  a  terrible  coward  ? ' 

'  I  understand   and  sympathize  with  you.      It  will  be 


RECOMPENSE.  291 

all  over  soon,'  said  James  Bethune  cheerfully.  '  I  want 
to  tell  you,  Walter,  how  proud  I  am  of  you  to-day.  You 
look  so  well.  You  are  a  son  of  whom  all  Nethercleugh 
will  be  proud  as  well  as  I.' 

So  he  tried  to  reassure  the  faltering  heart,  to  give  him 
confidence  in  himself  ;  but  he  too  became  silent  as  they 
neared  the  house.  The  hall  door  was  open,  and  when 
they  ascended  the  steps  a  maid  was  in  waiting  to  usher 
them  in.  She  led  the  way  to  the  library,  and  said  Miss 
Lorraine  would  be  with  them  directly,  just  as  if  they 
were  ordinary  callers. 

'  I  think  I  had  better  leave  the  room,  Walter,  before 
your  sister  comes,'  said  James  Bethune  the  moment  they 
were  left  alone. 

'  Oh  no,  I  cannot  be  left ! '  said  Willie  Lorraine 
nervously.  'Do  stay.' 

'  If  you  wish  it,  but  I  would  rather  go,'  said  James 
Bethune,  and,  walking  over  to  the  farthest  window,  he 
stood  within  the  rich  hangings,  and  watched  the  yellow 
sunlight  falling  aslant  the  daisied  turf.  These  brief 
moments  were  like  hours  to  both.  At  last  the  handle 
of  the  door  was  turned,  and  there  was  the  soft  rustle  of 
a  woman's  dress  in  the  room. 

'  Willie— oh,  Willie,  Willie  ! ' 

'  Beatrice,  my  darling  ! ' 

Then  there  was  the  sound  of  sobbing  in  the  quiet 
room,  and  James  Bethune  drew  the  hangings  close  about 
him,  and  stood  looking  out  upon  the  sunshine,  trying  to 
think  of  other  things.  They  had  forgotten  him,  and  he 
was  glad  of  it ;  he  had  hoped  they  would. 

'  Come ! '  he  heard  Beatrice  say  at  length,  in  a 
trembling,  eager  whisper.  '  Papa  is  waiting.  He  is  not 
able  to  be  out  of  his  room.  Come  away.' 

'  I  am  afraid,  Beatrice.      I  dare  not  meet  him.' 


292  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

'  Oh  yes.  There  is  nothing  to  fear,  dear.  We  had  a 
long,  long  talk  to-day.  I  do  not  know  which  I  love 
best,  papa  or  you.  Oh,  he  will  be  kind  and  loving,  I 
know !  He  too  regrets  the  past.  And  when  he  sees 
you  as  you  are  now  !  When  I  look  upon  your  face,  my 
brother,  and  see  all  that  is  written  there,  my  heart  is 
like  to  break  for  joy.  You  look  better  than  even  in  the 
best  of  the  old  days.  But  come ;  these  moments  are  hours 
for  poor  papa  ! ' 

James  Bethune  felt  that  she  had  laid  her  gentle  hand 
on  her  brother's,  and  was  leading  him  from  the  room. 
He  waited  until  they  had  gone  away,  until  he  heard 
footsteps  die  away  on  the  stairs,  then  the  shutting  of  a 
door.  Then  in  the  deep  hush  which  followed,  he  too 
left  the  room,  and  took  his  hat  from  the  table.  As  he 
entered  the  hall,  a  maid  came  out  of  the  dining-room, 
where  she  had  been  preparing  the  table  for  dinner. 

'  If  Mr.  or  Miss  Lorraine  inquires  for  me,  say  I  have 
gone  to  the  manse,  please,'  he  said,  'and  that  I  shall 
return  later  in  the  evening.' 

'  But,  sir,  I  think  you  are  expected  to  dine.  Miss 
Lorraine  bade  me  lay  covers  for  three,  and  the  master  is 
not  able  to  be  down-stairs.' 

'  Never  mind,  Miss  Lorraine  will  understand,'  returned 
James  Bethune  with  a  nod  and  a  smile ;  '  and  I  shall 
be  sure  to  return  in  the  evening/ 

So  saying,  he  walked  out  into  the  clear,  pleasant  air, 
and  struck  across  the  park  to  the  burn  road  to  Loch- 
broom.  His  mission  was  accomplished,  his  work  done, 
and  they  had  no  need  of  him.  Now  that  the  tension 
of  the  past  days  was  removed,  he  felt  strangely  depressed, 
almost  sad.  Was  it  that  the  voice  of  Beatrice  Lorraine 
had  awakened  once  more  that  pain  which  he  knew  was 
the  hunger  of  love  ?  He  walked  quickly,  trying  to  rid 


RECOMPENSE.  293 

himself  of  these  burdening  thoughts,  trying  to  dwell 
rather  on  the  joy  he  had  helped  to  bring  to  the  home 
which  sheltered  her,  but  he  was  glad  when  he  reached 
the  manse.  The  hands  of  the  church  clock  were  pointing 
to  six  when  he  opened  the  garden  gate  and  strode  up 
the  gravelled  pathway  to  the  house.  The  minister  was 
at  home,  and  at  tea,  the  housekeeper  said  with  a  smile, 
and  he  walked  straight  into  the  dining-room. 

'  Well,  sir,  here  I  am  again  ! '  he  said  cheerily.  '  Is 
there  any  of  that  cheering  brew  left  for  me,  eh  ? ' 

The  minister  sprang  up,  and  gripped  him  by  both 
hands. 

'  Jamie,  you  just  come  down  on  a  fellow  like  a  clap 
of  thunder.  What  are  you  doing  here  again  ? ' 

'  I'll  tell  you  presently.  I'm  glad  of  anything  that 
gives  me  a  chance  to  see  you,'  said  Jamie  heartily. 
'  You  are  looking  well.  I  had  hardly  time  to  get  a  good 
look  at  you  last  time  I  was  here.' 

'  I   am   well,   thanks.       You   have  been  working  too 
hard,  that's  evident.     Are  your  traps  down-stairs  ?     You 
will  be  going  to  stay  over  the  Sabbath  at  any  rate.' 
'  No  ;  I'm  going  off  to-morrow  morning.' 
'  What  does  all  this  mean  ?     If  you  would  give  me 
some   sort  of   explanation  of  these  frequent  and  extra- 
ordinary journeys,  I  should  feel  greatly  obliged.' 

Jamie  laughed,  and  threw  himself  into  a  chair.     For 
the  time   the   feeling  of  loneliness   and  depression   was 
gone — melted  away  in  the  sunshine  of  Sandy's  presence. 
'  Well,    I'll    tell    you    briefly,   just    to    satisfy    your 
insatiable  curiosity — I've  been  at  Nethercleugh  to-day.' 

'  Oh,  indeed !  I'm  certainly  grateful  that  you  should 
deign  to  honour  me  with  a  call  at  all ! '  exclaimed  the 
minister  in  feigned  disdain.  '  What  does  this  all  mean, 
Jamie  ?  You  did  the  very  same  thing  last  time.' 


294  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

'Well,  the  explanation  is  simple  enough.  I  came 
across  the  lost  son  of  the  house  of  Lorraine  in  London, 
and  he  has  been  with  me  all  winter.  Anxiety  to  bring 
about  a  reconciliation  brought  me  down.  It  is  effected 
now,  I  am  happy  to  say.  Willie  Lorraine  travelled  with 
me  from  London  to-day ;  his  father's  carriage  met  us  at 
Lockerbie,  and  I  left  him  at  Nethercleugh  and  came  up 
to  you.  Will  that  satisfy  you  ? ' 

For  a  moment  the  minister  stared  in  speechless 
amazement. 

'  Do  you  say  so  ?  How  calmly  you  speak,  as  if  it 
were  a  very  small  matter.  How  did  it  all  come 
about  ? ' 

1  It  is  a  long  story.  I'll  tell  it  another  time,  Sandy. 
I  want  to  hear  something  about  yourself.  I  have  to  go 
back  to  Nethercleugh  to-night,  for  I  took  a  species  of 
French  leave  after  I  had  delivered  my  charge.  We'll 
have  a  long  talk  to-night  yet.  We  can  sit  up  till 
morning.  It  is  only  once  in  a  while  we  have  the 
chance.' 

'  It  is.     I  was  over  at  Star  last  week,  Jamie.' 

'  Were  you  ?  Aunt  Susan  is  in  her  usual,  I  know, 
for  I  had  Mary's  letter  before  I  left  this  morning.  Did 
you  see  Mary,  Sandy  ? ' 

'  No,  I  did  not  dare  to  go  up.  I  mil  go  some  day, 
Jamie.' 

The  words  were  significant  enough,  and  James  Bethune 
looked  straight  into  his  brother's  eyes. 

'  You  have  got  over  it  all,  Sandy.  This  has  been  an 
eventful  year  for  you.' 

'  1  know  what  you  mean.  Do  you  know,  Jamie, 
Beatrice  Lorraine's  refusal  was  the  best  thing  which 
could  have  happened  to  me.  It  showed  me  a  great 
many  things.  It  opened  my  eyes.  Some  day  I  shall 


RECOMPENSE.  295 

thank  her  for  it.  She  is  my  friend  now ;  she  knows  a 
little  of  my  strivings ;  she  sympathizes  and  helps  me  in 
my  work.  What  a  friend  she  is  for  any  man  to  have ! 
The  one  who  may  call  her  wife  will  be  to  be  envied,  but 
/  shall  not  envy  him — that  is  past.' 

James  Bethune  sat  silent,  his  heart  overcharged  with 
deep  thankful '-ess,  weighed  down  by  a  reverent  sense  of 
the  unspeakable  goodness  of  God.  Only  His  hand  could 
unravel  the  knotted  skein  of  life,  and  bring  sweetest 
harmonies  out  of  direst  discord.  There  stole  into  his 
mind  the  verse  of  Faber's  hymn  which  Doctor  Kinross 
had  repeated  to  him  one  evening  at  the  manse  of 
St.  Giles,- 

'All  is  right  that  seems  most  wrong 
If  it  be  His  sweet  will.' 

How  true  they  were  he  had  proved  out  of  the 
abundance  of  his  own  experience  of  life. 

'  That  is  the  carriage  from  Nethercleugh,  Mr.  Bethune/ 
said  the  housekeeper,  opening  the  dining-room  door. 
'  Gray  says  he  has  to  take  the  gentlemen  back  with 
him.' 

The  brothers  looked  at  each  other,  and  Sandy  shook 
his  head. 

'  There  is  no  need  for  me  to  go.  You  will  not  be  late, 
Jamie ;  I  can  easily  occupy  myself  till  you  come  back.' 

'  Nonsense,  man !  You  must  come  and  help  me 
through  with  the  thanks  I  know  Mr.  Lorraine  will 
insist  on  pouring  on  me.  They  will  make  so  much  of 
what  I  did.  Why  shouldn't  you  share  the  general  joy  ? 
Come  away.' 

Pei  haps  the  minister  was  not  very  difficult  to  persuade, 
for  he  smiled,  and,  following  his  brother  down -stairs, 
donned  his  hat  and  coat,  and  entered  the  carriage  with 
him. 


296  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

'Fancy  us  two  riding  in  a  real  carriage  and  pair, 
Sandy  !'  laughed  James  Bethune  as  they  bowled  smoothly 
along  the  dry  roads.  'Do  you  mind  the  time  when  wo 
ran  barefoot  together  to  gump  in  the  Star  burn  ?  We've 
seen  a  lot  since  then.' 

'  Ay,  we  have.  Do  you  know,  I  have  thought  more  of 
these  old  days  of  late  than  I  ever  did.  I  wish  the  old 
.nan  were  yet  alive,  Jamie.  I  shall  never  have  the 
chance  to  atone  to  him  for  the  past.  What  an  un- 
grateful, unfilial  son  I  was  to  him ! ' 

'  Don't  dwell  on  these  old  sores,  Sandy.  Don't  you 
suppose  he  knows  all  up  there  ?  Why,  he  knows  more 
about  us  than  we  know  ourselves ;  and  I  believe  it  is  a 
real  joy  to  him  to  see  his  laddies  getting  on.  When  I 
think  of  it,  do  you  know,  heaven  seems  almost  as  near 
as  earth.  He  was  a  splendid  man  our  father,  Sandy; 
/  have  never  met  his  marrow.' 

'  You  could  appreciate  him  more  than  I,  because  you 
came  nearer  his  true  nature.  There  were  many  things 
about  him  I  never  understood,  just  because  I  stood  on  a 
lower  level.' 

'  Oh,  come  now,  don't  say  that.  You  were  so  much 
away  from  home ;  you  did  not  know  him  so  well  as  I, 
if  I  may  so  put  it.  I  think  we  have  reason  to  thank 
God  for  our  home  and  our  early  training.  It  taught  us 
self-reliance  and  independence.  Why,  here  we  are 
already  !  Do  you  know,  I  would  rather  not  go  in.  I 
could  go  away  back  to  London  content,  now  that  I  know 
it  is  all  right.  The  windows  seem  to  be  all  lighted,'  he 
added,  looking  out  as  they  swept  round  the  curve  in  the 
avenue.  '  That  looks  like  rejoicing  in  earnest.' 

As  they  ascended  the  steps  to  the  open  door,  Beatrice 
came  running  down  the  staircase  as  if  in  haste  to  meet 
them.  Both  looked  at  ber  in  silent  admiration,  struck 


RECOMPENSE.  297 

by  the  radiant  change  in  her  appearance.  Her  face  was 
aglow ;  her  eyes  sparkling  with  happiness ;  her  every 
movement  seemed  to  be  fraught  with  the  restlessness 
of  joy. 

'  Why  did  you  run  away,  Mr.  Bethune  ?  I  cannot 
tell  you  how  I  felt  when  I  came  down  to  find  you 
gone.' 

'  It   was   better.   Miss   Lorraine.'  he  answered  gcntlv. 

o  »/ 

'  With  such  joy,  you  know,  no  stranger  may  inter- 
meddle.' 

'  He  will  call  himself  a  stranger  after  all  he  has  done !' 
she  said,  turning  to  the  minister.  '  Oh,  is  not  this  a 
blessed  thing  which  has  happened  ?  Willie  is  with  papa 
now,  and  it  is  all  right.  Will  you  come  up,  please,  and 
see  him  now  ? ' 

'I  will  remain  down -stairs,  Miss  Lorraine,'  said  the 
minister,  feeling  that  he  had  hardly  a  place  in  that  upper 
room.  '  Don't  mind  me  ;  I  know  my  way  to  the  library, 
and  perhaps  you  will  bring  your  brother  by  and  by  to 
shake  hands  with  me.  I  hardly  need  express  my  glad- 
ness ;  I  think  you  know  it  is  sincere.' 

'  Oh  yes,'  she  answered  with  a  bright,  happy  smile. 
'  Come  then,'  she  added  to  James  Bethune.  '  Papa  has 
asked  so  often  if  you  have  come.  He  thinks  with  me 
that  we  can  never  hope  to  acknowledge  or  repay  what 
you  have  done.' 

So  saying,  she  led  the  way  up-stairs,  James  Bethune 
following,  feeling  almost  as  if  it  were  all  a  dream. 
Xike  a  dream,  too,  was  what  followed.  She  opened  tlu 
door  of  her  father's  dressing-room,  and  they  entered  it 
together.  The  master  of  Nethercleugh  was  lying  on  the 
sofa  in  his  dressing-gown,  Willie  sitting  by  him  with  his 
hand  fast  clasped  in  his.  James  Bethune  was  surprised 
to  see  the  careworn  and  haggard  look,  as  if  he  had 


298  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

passed  through  some  trying  illness.  But  there  dwelt 
upon  his  pale  face  a  look  of  deep  and  quiet  joy  ;  his  eyes, 
so  keen  and  restless  of  yore,  were  filled  with  peace  and 
satisfaction  and  an  indescribable  depth  of  tenderness  and 
love.  The  face  of  his  son  wore  that  strange  tremulous 
expression  born  of  strong  emotion,  and  his  sunny  eyes 
were  still  wet  with  tears. 

At  the  entrance  of  James  Bethune,  Mr.  Lorraine 
dropped  Willie's  hand,  and  made  an  effort  to  rise. 

'Nay,  sir,'  said  James  Bethune,  advancing,  a  sunny 
smile  irradiating  his  true  face.  '  Do  not  rise,  and  do  not 
speak,  I  beg  of  you.  I  know  all  you  would  say.  Allow 
me  only  to  express  my  deep  satisfaction  at  this  happy 
ending,  and  then  let  there  be  no  more  about  it.' 

'  No  more  about  it ! '  repeated  the  master  of  Nether- 
cleugh  with  a  somewhat  sad  smile,  and  he  closed  his  two 
pale  hands  over  the  one  offered  to  him  in  such  sympathy 
and  friendship.  '  Sir,  I  would  thank  you  as  a  father  for 
what  you  have  done.  My  son  has  tried  to  tell  me  of  all 
your  goodness,  but  words  have  failed  him,  even  as  they 
fail  me  now.' 

'  If  I  needed  any  thanks,  any  reward,  Mr.  Lorraine,  it 
is  here,'  said  James  Bethune,  laying  a  kind  hand  on 
Willie's  bowed  head.  '  I  have  hoped  and  prayed  for  this. 
I  cannot  express  what  it  is  to  me  to  see  him  here  beside 
his  nearest  and  dearest.' 

He  turned  slightly  towards  Beatrice,  who  stood  with 
that  lovely  smile  on  her  lips,  a  smile  of  joy  and  hope 
and  tenderness  combined  in  one. 

•  If  I  could  hope  to  do  something,  just  to  show  my 
gratitude,'  repeated  Mr.  Lorraine  with  a  mingling  of 
dignity  and  pleading  in  his  tone;  but  James  Bethune 
"rice  more  uplifted  a  deprecating  hand. 

'  Whatever  you  do  for  Walter, — for  Walter  he  will  be 


RECOMPENSE.  299 

to  me,  I  fear,  to  the  end  of  the  chapter, — Mr.  Lorraine, 
will  be  done  for  me.  We  shall  hear  great  things  of  him 
yet,  I  prophesy.' 

Mr.  Lorraine  turned  his  eyes,  full  of  ineffable  tender- 
ness, on  his  boy's  bent  head.  That  look  told  James 
Bethune  that  the  reconciliation  had  been  complete,  and 
that  love  had  conquered  all.  He  turned  aside  a  little, 
for  his  eyes  were  strangely  dim.  He  need  not  have 
been  ashamed  of  these  tears,  they  were  no  dishonour  to 
his  manhood. 

'  Willie,  will  you  come  down-stairs  and  see  Mr. 
Bethune's  brother?'  said  Beatrice  presently.  'Perhaps 
papa  would  like  a  little  talk  with  your  friend.  Do 
come.' 

Willie  rose  then,  and,  as  he  wound  his  arm  about  his 
sister,  there  was  an  air  of  proud  proprietorship,  as  well  as 
of  fond  love,  which  became  him  well.  So  they  quitted 
the  room  together,  the  father's  eyes  following  them  until 
the  door  was  closed. 

'  It  is  like  the  past  come  back,'  he  said  with  a  tender 
smile.  '  Mr.  Bethune,  will  you  tell  me  what  induced  you 
to  do  so  much  for  those  who  were  almost  strangers  to 
you  ?  Nay,  I  must  talk  of  it.  I  do  not  want  to  lay  it 
aside  or  think  lightly  of  it,  if  that  were  possible.  To 
my  dying  day  I  shall  be  grateful ;  how  grateful  even  you 
cannot  know.  You  have  not  only  restored  my  son  to  me, 
but  you  have  made  a  man  of  him.' 

'  Nay,  I  only  helped  him  to  make  a  man  of  himself/ 
corrected  James  Bethune.  '  I  fear  you  will  not  find  it 
easy  to  spare  him  to  his  London  life  again/ 

'  We  have  talked  even  of  that  in  the  short  time  we 
have  been  together.  He  has  made  his  choice ;  he  will 
return  with  you.  He  wants  to  push  his  way  just  as  if 
we  had  not  any  part  in  his  life.  I  honour  him  f;r  it. 


300  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

I  am  content  that  it  should  be  so,  at  least  for  a  time. 
God  forbid  that  I  should  stand  in  the  way  of  honest 
endeavour.  I  have  learned  my  sharp  lesson  well.  You 
will  not  withdraw  your  love  and  care  for  him  yet 
awhile?' 

'  Never  so  long  as  he  needs  it.  I  have  not  so  many 
friends  in  London  that  I  can  afford  to  lose  the  one 
dearest  to  me,'  was  the  answer,  given  with  a  smile  which 
was  more  than  the  words. 

'  And  you  will  come  sometimes — often  here  ?  You 
will  learn  to  look  upon  this  as  your  home  ? '  said  the 
master  of  Nethercleugh  eagerly.  '  I  would  entreat  you 
to  believe  that  you  are  as  welcome  in  it  as  if  you  were 
my  own.' 

'  I  thank  you,  Mr.  Lorraine ;  but  it  will  be  better  for 
me  not  to  come — not  to  think  too  much  of  Nethercleugh,' 
answered  James  Bethune  unsteadily,  moved  by  a  strange 
impulse  to  utter  the  words. 

'  Why  not  ? ' 

'  Do  you  not  understand  ? ' 

'  I  think  I  do.     My  daughter  ? ' 

James  Bethune  nodded,  and  for  a  moment  there  was 
a  strange  silence,  and  these  two  men  looked  into  each 
other's  eyes  with  a  long,  intense  look. 

'  You  love  her,  as  a  man  loves  the  woman  he  would 
make  his  wife  ? '  said  the  master  of  Nethercleugh  at 
length;  and  a  smile  began  to  creep  about  the  corners  of 
his  grave,  stern  mouth. 

'  I  do ;  so  much  that  I  cannot  promise  myself  that  I 
can  see  her  often  and  hide  it.  This  has  come  to  me 
without  my  seeking,  Mr.  Lorraine,'  said  James  Bethune 
in  his  manly,  straightforward  fashion.  '  I  have  loved  her 
since  that  night  I  saw  her  first  at  the  manse  of  St.  Giles. 
But  I  shall  not  forget  the  gulf  between  us.' 


RECOMPENSE.  301 

'  What  gulf  ?  There  is  none  which  you  cannot  bridge. 
There  is  no  man  to  whom  I  would  more  willingly  give 
my  daughter.' 

'  Sir  ? ' 

'  I  am  in  earnest.  You  may  be  poor  as  the  world 
estimates  poverty,  but  you  have  what  any  king  might 
envy/  said  Mr.  Lorraine  with  kindling  eye,  for  his  heart 
went  out  to  this  true  and  noble  man  with  a  great  yearn- 
ing. '  If  you  can  win  her  love,  I  shall  not  stand  in  the 
way ;  nay,  I  will  give  her  to  you  with  a  thankful,  happy 
heart.  Your  wife,  when  you  take  one,  will  be  a  blessed 
woman.' 

He  stretched  out  his  hand,  and  the  warm,  fervent  clasp 
sealed  his  words.  Jpmes  Bethune  had  not  yet  formed 
his  answer,  when  there  was  the  sound  of  sweet  laughter 
and  the  tread  of  light  footsteps  on  the  stairs,  and  the 
next  moment  Beatrice  and  Willie  entered  the  room, 
followed  by  the  minister  of  Lochbroom. 


CHAPTER    XXI. 
ALL'S  WELL. 

*  0  love  !  that  makes  breath  poor 
And  speech  unable ! ' 

SHAKESPEARE. 

an  August  evening  the  two  brothers  were 
walking  leisurely  over  the  hill  from  Markinch 
to  the  Star.  James  Bethune  had  just 
entered  upon  a  well-earned  holiday,  which 
he  was  to  spend  chiefly  at  Lochbroom.  He 
had  only  arrived  from  London  that  morning, 
and  Sandy  had  met  him  in  Edinburgh  in  order 
that  they  might  first  pay  a  visit  to  Aunt  Susan  and 
their  early  home.  They  were  a  goodly  pair  as  they 
strode  together  up  the  familiar  way,— a  stranger  would 
have  found  it  difficult  to  say  which  was  the  more  strik- 
ing of  the  two.  Jamie  towered  above  his  brother,  find 
carried  himself  perhaps  with  a  manlier  grace.  His  face, 
if  less  smooth  and  refined,  had  its  own  deep  charm  of 
quiet  earnestness  and  power.  There  were  lines  on  the 

broad  brow,  and  grave,  thoughtful  curves  about  the  firm 

am 


ALL'S  WELL.  303 

yet  sweet  mouth,  which  told  of  wrestling  with  the 
problems  of  life.  But  he  had  found  sweetness  and 
strength  in  the  struggle,  for  is  there  not  a  glorious  joy 
in  surmounting  the  hills  of  difficulty,  in  wrestling  with 
the  lions  in  the  path  until  they  be  overcome  ?  The  idler 
and  the  day- dreamer  know  nothing  of  the  deep  saf;s- 
faction  which  crowns  the  earnest  life  of  the  toiler,  and 
which  I  can  ot  but  think  is  a  foretaste  of  that  heavenlier 
c~lm  with  which  each  true  servant  of  the  King  will  be 
rewarded  hereafter. 

They  walked  slowly,  as  was  natural,  pausing  often  to 
look  at  some  familiar  landmark,  perhaps  a  bramble  bush 
or  a  rowan  tree,  or  some  hidden  nook  in  the  hawthorn 
hedge,  where  the  mavises  were  wont  to  build.  When 
they  reached  the  brow  of  the  hill  they  stood  still,  and, 
leaning  on  the  stile,  looked  at  the  landscape  stretching 
about  their  feet.  The  bonnie  waters  of  the  Firth  seemed 
very  near ;  they  could  see  each  foamy  crest  on  the  blue 
waves,  and  the  white  wings  of  the  pleasure-boats  out 
from  the  sheltered  havens  along  the  coast.  The  May 
Island  and  the  Bass  stood  out  clear  and  well-defined 
against  the  sky,  with  the  peak  of  North  Berwick  Law 
and  the  sunny  slopes  of  the  Lammermuirs  in  the  distance. 
Looking  landward,  the  peak  of  Largo  Law  seemed  almost 
within  a  stone's  throw  ;  and  they  had  to  recall  a  Saturday 
afternoon  when  they  had  set  out  on  a  secret  pilgrimage 
from  the  Star,  fired  with  ambition  to  climb  its  summit, 
but  had  failed  in  their  purpose  before  they  were  half-way 
to  Leven.  Then  their  eyes  rested  on  the  little  hamlet 
at  their  feet,  which  had  still  a  home-feeling  for  them 
both.  There  were  changes  there  too  which  saddened 
them.  Looking  down,  they  could  see  the  ruins  of  many 
a  little  cottage,  which  had  each  its  own  history  they 
knew  by  heart.  The  weaving  trade  was  done  in  Star, 


304  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

killed  by  the  great  factories,  where  machinery  had  com- 
pletely superseded  hand-labour ;  and  so,  there  being  no 
occupation  for  the  young  folk,  they  had  to  seek  their  way 
to  the  centres  where  they  could  find  something  to  do. 

'  It's  not  like  the  same  place,'  said  Jamie  with  a  half 
sigh.  '  How  strange  it  is  to  see  the  loch  yonder  in 
Carriston  fields !  Buckhaven  folk  might  have  gone  else- 
where for  their  water  supply.' 

'  It's  rather  an  improvement  to  the  landscape,  I  think ; 
but,  as  you  say,  it  is  all  changed.  Tender's  a  new  house 
building  on  the  Star  burn  ;  whose  can  it  be  ? ' 

'  Aunt  Susan  will  be  able  to  give  us  the  most  minute 
particulars-,  I  don't  doubt,'  said  Jamie,  laughing.  '  Come, 
we  must  be  wearing  down ;  it's  after  four  o'clock,  and 
she'll  be  wearying  on  her  tea,  I  know.  How  would  you 
like  to  come  back  here  and  live,  eh  ? ' 

'  I  can't  imagine  myself  doing  it.  Neither  of  us  would 
relish  it  much,  I'm  afraid  ;  but  it's  pleasant  to  see  the  old 
place  again,'  answered  the  minister,  and  as  his  eyes 
rested  on  the  clustering  roofs  of  the  Knowe,  a  softened 
and  beautiful  expression  filled  them.  And  then  there 
was  a  long  silence,  for  each  was  busy  with  his  own 
thoughts.  As  they  strode  rapidly  down  the  road,  past 
the  malt  barns,  many  a  head  was  popped  out  of  the 
doors,  and,  when  they  were  out  of  sight,  one  ran  to 
another,  asking  if  'she  had  seen  John  Bethune's  sons 
gang  by.'  For  though  Aunt  Susan  knew  of  their  coming, 
she  had  discreetly  kept  her  own  counsel ;  even  in  her 
age  she  retained  her  rooted  dislike  to  '  clashes.'  But 
she  had  grown  impatient  for  their  arrival,  and  directly 
they  turned  the  school  corner  they  saw  her  at  the 
garden  gate,  shading  her  eyes  under  her  white  mutch, 
and  peering  anxiously  up  the  road.  And  in  a  minute 
they  had  received  her  warm,  hearty  welcome,  and  were 


ALL'S  WELL.  305 

in  the  old,  old  home  once  more.  It  was  not  changed. 
There  were  the  queer,  high  hox-beds,  the  wag-at-the-wa', 
the  plate-rack  and  the  dresser  with  their  shining  array ; 
the  quaint  old  fireplace,  whitened  with  pipeclay,  and 
the  '  swee,'  with  the  big  kettle  singing  merrily  above  the 
'  lowin'  peats.' 

'  Eh,  laddies,  an'  ye're  here  again,  thank  the  Lord  ! ' 
said  Aunt  Susan,  getting  on  her  spectacles  to  have  a 
better  look  at  them.  '  My  certy !  I  believe  ye're  baith 
growin'  yet.  Jamie,  bairn,  ye're  jist  by-ordinar'  like  yer 
faither.  Is  he  no'  noo,  Sandy  ? ' 

'  He  is  indeed,  Aunt  Susan.' 

'  But  ye  are  like  yer  mither,  my  man,  an'  site  was  a 
bonnie  body,'  Aunt  Susan  made  haste  to  say,  lest  he 
should  feel  himself  left  out  in  the  cold. 

I  may  mention  that  Aunt  Susan  had  of  late  con- 
siderably thawed  towards  the  minister,  since  he  had 
shown  more  signs  of  grace. 

'  But  come  awa'  an'  tak'  yer  teas.  I'se  warrand  ye're 
ready  for't.  The  cakes  an'  the  scones's  mine,  an'  the 
butter  an'  the  cream's  the  Knowes,  an'  I  wager  ye 
hinna  tastit  the  like  sin'  ye  were  last  i'  the  Star.  Fa* 
tae,  lads,  an'  dinna  mind  me.  It's  meat  to  me  the  nicht 
jist  to  look  at  ye,'  said  Aunt  Susan,  her  voice  a  little 
unsteady  in  her  great  joy,  and  she  hovered  abo.  .t  them, 
attending  to  their  wants,  and  heaping  up  their  plates 
with  far  more  than  they  could  eat. 

'  Ye're  renewin'  your  youth,  auntie,'  said  Jamie 
merrily,  for  his  heart  was  as  light  as  a  feather  to-nighfc. 
'  I  believe  I'll  get  ye  up  to  London  yet.' 

'There's  nae  sayin','  answered  Aunt  Susan  with  a 
twinkle  in  her  eye.  'Maybe,  if  ye  get  a  by-ordinar 
braw  English  wife,  I'll  come  an'  gie  her  a  fricht  wi'  my 
Scotch  ways  ;  eh,  Sandy  ? ' 

26 


306  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

1 1  don't  think  that'll  be  for  a  long  time,  Aunt  Susan,' 
answered  the  minister,  for  he  had  no  idea  of  the  hope 
of  his  brother's  heart 

That  one  thing  Jamie  had  not  revealed,  because  it 
was  too  sacred  to  himself  to  be  spoken  about  to  another. 
"When  tea  was  over  they  sat  chatting  for  a  while,  and 
then  Sandy  rose  and  said  he  would  go  out  for  a  stroll. 
Aunt  Susan  nodded,  and  continued  nodding,  apparently 
with  satisfaction,  after  he  had  gone. 

'  He's  awa'  tae  the  Knowe,  ye  ken.  Ay,  maybe  that'll 
come  richt  efter  a'.  Did  I  no'  aye  say  he  wad  rue  the 
day  he  slichted  Mary  ? '  she  asked  with  a  species  of  quiet 
triumph.  '  Did  ye  ken  he  wrote  a  letter  tae  Dauvit  an 
Jean  no'  lang  syne  ? ' 

'  Yes,  he  told  me ;  but  they  never  answered  it.' 

'  Aweel,  maybe  he  deserved  it ;  an'  yet,  though  I 
never  saw  the  letter,  they  tell  me  it  was  straichtforit 
an'  weel  dune.  He  owned  himsel'  in  the  wrang,  an' 
speered  if  they  wad  let  him  mak'  up  wi'  Mary  again.' 

'  And  why  didn't  they  write  ? ' 

*  It  was  Jean.  Dauvit's  heart's  saft  eneuch,  but  she's 
been  fell  bitter  ower't.  She  says  he's  ta'en  the  licht  o' 
day  awa'  frae  Mary  for  mony  a  year,  an'  that  he  maun 
bear  the  brunt  o't  rfoo  a  wee.' 

'  And  what  about  Mary  ? ' 

'  Oh,  they  didna  tell  her  aboot  it.  It's  no'  wi'  her 
he'll  hae  the  tussle.  She's  a  lamb,  laddie,  an'  her 
heart's  never  swithered  an  inch  frae  him.  But  I'm 
no'  for  him  takin'  her  even  yet,  unless  he'll  mak'  up 
till  her  for  a'  she's  borne.  The  cratur's  cairried  a 
sair,  sair  heart,  Jamie,  an'  grat  mony  a  saut  tear 
when  naebody  kent.' 

'  Aunt  Susan,  I  believe  he  loves  her  very  dearly.  His 
infatuation  for  another  has  been  completely  cured,  and 


ALL'S  WELL.  S07 

his  heart  has  returned  to  its  old  allegiance  with  a  deeper 
hold.  I  hope  they  won't  stand  in  the  way.' 

'  Oh,  I  dinna  think  they'll  haud  oot  lang.  But  Jean 
'11  gie  him  a  word,  I  dinna  doot,'  said  Aunt  Susan.  '  But 
come,  tell  me  anent  yersel'.  Hoo's  things  in  Lunnon  ? 
Are  ye  workin'  as  sair's  ever  ? '  As  she  spoke  she  sat 
down  fair  in  front  of  him,  and,  folding  her  arms,  waited 
to  hear  all  the  news. 

Meanwhile  the  minister  had  reached  the  Knowe. 
The  kitchen  door  was  wide  open  as  usual,  but  he  did 
not  enter  as  he  used  to  do  long  ago,  without  notice  or 
ceremony. 

'  Come  in,'  answered  the  mistress's  voice  in  reply  to 
his  knock,  and  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  accept 
the  invitation.  She  was  sitting  darning  at  the  fire,  and, 
looking  up  when  he  entered,  said,  with  the  scantiest 
courtesy, — 

'Oh,  it's  you!' 

Then  she  dropped  her  eyes  on  the  heel  of  her  stocking 
again,  and  paid  him  no  further  heed. 

'May  I  not  sit  down,  Mrs.  Campbell?'  asked  the 
minister  rather  lamely,  for  his  reception  was  certainly 
calculated  to  disconcert  him. 

'  There's  chairs  in  the  hoose.  Ye  didna  used  to  need 
a  biddin','  she  answered  quite  as  ungraciously,  and 
another  awkward  silence  ensued. 

'  Wha  is't  ye've  come  to  see,  Sandy  Bethune  ?  I'm 
no'  maisterin'  ye,  ye  see,  though  ye  be  a  minister.  Is't 
me,  or  Dauvit,  or  wha  is't  ?  If  it's  me,  I'm  here.  If  it's 
Dauvit,  he's  operiin'  the  roads  on  Edom's  Laund ;  ye  wad 
see  the  barley's  ready.  He'll  be  in  in  the  inside  o'  an 
hoor.' 

'  Where  is  Mary,  Mrs.  Campbell  ? ' 

'Mary's — whaur  she  is/  answered  the  mistress  stiffly; 


308  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

then  she  cut  her  thread,  folded  up  her  stocking,  and 
turned  her  large  keen  eyes  full  upon  his  face. 

'  "We  got  yec  letter,  Sandy  Bethune,  an'  it  was  me 
that  wadna  let  the  maister  answer't.  I've  aye  said  that 
I'd  gie  ye  a  word  when  I  got  haud  o'  ye,  an'  I've  gotten 
the  chance  noo.  But  ye  look  as  if  ye  kent  what  I  think 
o'  ye,  so  I'll  no'  say  muckle  on  that  heid.  I  said  to 
Dauvit  that  if  ye.  were  as  muckle  in  earnest  as  ye  said 
in  your  letter,  ye  wad  come  yersel'  to  the  Knowe. 
Weel,  ye  have  come,  an'  afore  we  gang  ony  further 
there  are  some  things  I  want  to  ken.  Should  Mary  be 
willint  to  forgie  ye,  are  ye  prepared  to  mak'  up  for't  a'  ? 
Supposin',  noo,  that  ye  mak'  her  yer  wife,  wull  ye  dae 
weel  by  her,  wull  ye  try  an'  mak'  her  happy  ?  Unless 
that,  ye  maun  gang  yer  gate  again.  Mary  disna  ken 
ye  are  here  the  day,  she  disna  ken  aboot  that  letter,  an' 
she'll  never  ken  frae  me.' 

Sandy  Bethune  sat  still,  with  his  face  hidden  on  his 
hand.  These  were  sharp  moments,  for  Jean  Campbell's 
honest  tongue  did  not  spare  him.  Ay,  it  was  a  humbling 
experience  for  the  popular  minister  of  Lochbroom.  But 
he  raised  his  head  presently,  and  met  it  with  a  manly 
courage. 

'  Mrs.  Campbell,  if  Mary  will  forgive  me,  my  life  will 
be  devoted  to  her  happiness.  If  she  will  trust  herself 
with  me  yet,  God  will  help  me  to  make  her  a  happy 
woman.' 

'Then  ye  can  gang  ben  to  the  room,  an'  I'll  set  Mary 
till  ye.  She's  no'  faur  awa','  said  Jean  Campbell,  and  her 
eyes  softened  a  little,  and  the  sternness  about  her  mouth 
relaxed.  '  Eh,  laddie,  what  way  did  ye  bring  sae  muckle 
needless  vexation  on  yersel'  an'  ither  folk  ? '  she  added, 
and  the  tears  started  to  her  eyes.  She  had  had  her 
say,  and  her  heart  was  touched  by  the  minister's  down- 


ALL'S  WELL  309 

cast  look,  and  by  the  earnestness  of  his  whole  manner. 
She  pointed  him  silently  to  the  room,  and,  shutting  the 
door  between,  sat  down  by  the  fire  to  relieve  her 
feelings  with  a  good  cry. 

When  the  minister  crossed  the  little  lobby,  and  opened 
the  room  door,  there  was  Mary  at  the  sewing-machine  in 
the  window,  her  fair  head  bent  low  over  her  seam. 
When  he  entered  she  gave  a  great  start,  and  the  white 
garment  fell  from  her  trembling  hands,  and  she  shook 
from  head  to  foot.  Sandy  Bethune  closed  the  door  and 
leaned  up  against  it,  and  these  two  looked  at  each  other 
in  deep  silence. 

'  Is  Aunt  Jean  not  in  ? '  she  asked  at  last  in  a  voiceless 
whisper.  '  Let  me  go  and  see  ;  I  would  rather  not  stay 
here.' 

'  She  knows  I  am  here,  Mary.  She  sent  me  to  you,' 
said  the  minister  hoarsely,  and  then  began  to  plead  his 
cause  with  an  impassioned  earnestness  such  as  she  had 
never  seen  before.  Her  colour  slowly  receded,  and  sho 
leaned  up  against  the  table,  and  listened  in  a  strange, 
dazed  way,  as  if  she  could  hardly  comprehend  it.  Even 
while  he  was  speaking,  he  took  keen  note  of  her  fragile 
appearance ;  he  saw  how  white  and  blue- veined  the  little 
hands  were ;  the  wan,  worn  cheek,  the  transparent 
brow,  the  shadowed  eyes,  were  not  lost  upon  him ; 
oh  no,  he  saw  all  these,  and  they  went  like  arrows 
to  his  heart 

'  What  is  it  you  are  saying  ?  Are  you  asking  me  to 
be  your  wife  again  ? '  she  whispered  faintly.  '  I  hear  your 
words,  but  I  do  not  understand.  I  thought  it  was  past 
for  ever.' 

He  could  have  knelt  at  her  feet  to  pray  for  her  for- 
giveness, his  heart  went  out  in  such  a  rush  of  yearning 
love. 


310  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

'  If  you  will  only  give  me  the  chance,  Mary,  to  try  and 
atone  for  the  past,'  he  pleaded.  '  Be  my  wife ;  I  will 
ask  no  love  until  I  have  won  it  again.  My  darling,  do 
not  send  me  away !  Unworthy  though  I  am,  you  loved 
me  once.  Let  the  memory  of  that  old  love  soften  your 
heart.  /  love  you  now,  with  the  love  of  a  life.  Oh,  I 
pray  it  has  not  come  too  late ! ' 

She  stood  still,  looking  with  far-away  eyes  through 
the  little  window  to  the  waving  corn-fields ;  it  was  im- 
possible to  tell  what  were  her  thoughts. 

'  If,  when  it  was  too  late,  you  should  regret,  you  should 
find  that  I  am  not  the  wife  for  you,  what  then  ? 

'  Be  merciful,  Mary  !  Don't  stab  me  with  the  past.  I 
know  now  that  you  are  far  above  me.  Let  me  prove 
to  you  my  sincerity.  Don't  you  see  I  am  terribly  in 
earnest  ? ' 

He  sat  clown  then  and  dropped  his  head  on  both  his 
hands.  For  a  moment  Mary  contemplated  him  as  if  in 
wonder,  and  then  slowly  the  light  of  a  sweet  compassion 
began  to  dawn  upon  her  face.  In  another  moment  she 
was  kneeling  by  his  side,  and  her  arm  was  about  his 
neck.  And  the  past  with  its  haunting,  bitter  memories 
melted  away  in  the  deep  joy  of  these  moments,  and  there 
sprang  from  its  ashes  a  new  and  boundless  trust,  which 
brought  to  the  hearts  of  both  a  soothing  and  abiding 
peace. 

•  •«••• 

One  evening,  a  week  later,  James  Bethune  walked 
leisurely  along  the  burn  path  to  Nethercleugh.  He  had 
left  Sandy  at  Star,  and  travelled  south  alone.  If  he 
were  to  come  at  all,  it  was  time  now,  for  his  brief  holiday 
would  end  in  two  days.  Had  he  not  been  under  promise, 
I  believe  he  would  have  returned  to  London  without 
visiting  Nethercleugh,  for  the  time  had  not  yet  come 


ALL'S   WELL.  311 

for  him  to  whisper  his  passionate  hopes  to  the  woman  he 
loved,  and  he  knew  that  at  any  moment  in  her  presence 
he  might  be  tempted  to  forget  the  vow  he  had  made,  to 
have  some  worthy  thing  to  lay  at  her  feet  before  he 
asked  her  to  share  his  life. 

But  Sandy's  happiness  had  awakened  in  him  all  the 
old,  intolerable  yearnings,  and  his  heart  that  autumn 
evening  was  out  of  time  with  the  beauty  and  fulness  of 
his  surroundings.  It  had  been  an  exceptionally  fine 
season  throughout,  and  in  the  early  parts  of  Annandale 
the  harvest  was  gathered  in  before  a  leaf  had  changed  its 
hue.  But  now  there  was  a  yellowing  tin^e  on  the 
beeches,  the  brambles  were  purpling  in  the  hedgerows, 
and  the  rowan  had  taken  on  its  deepest  crimson,  telling 
that  fruitage-time  was  wearing  past.  In  the  Nethercleugh 
woods  some  leaves  had  softly  fluttered  to  the  ground ; 
they  rustled  under  the  feet  of  the  solitary  stroller,  as  he 
walked  slowly  with  his  hands  clasped  behind  him  and 
his  eyes  down-bent  upon  the  ground.  So  he  walked  in 
deep  abstraction  till  he  came  to  the  little  pathway  which 
would  lead  him  across  the  park  to  the  house.  As  he 
emerged  from  the  darkling  shadows  of  the  trees,  his  eyes 
were  dazzled  by  the  blaze  of  splendour  with  which  the 
setting  sun  had  gilded  the  many  windows  of  the  old 
house  until "  it  looked  like  a  dream  of  fairyland.  He 
stood  until  the  glory  gradually  dimmed  and  faded  away, 
until  the  grey  turrets  were  left  to  the  gentle  shadows 
of  the  gathering  night.  The  hall  door  was  wide 
open  as  usual,  and  the  casements  of  the  drawing-room 
were  ajar,  the  lace  curtains  swaying  gently  in  the 
up-springing  breeze.  His  ring  at  the  bell  sent  the 
clear,  rich  echo  rebounding  through  the  quiet  house, 
and  startled  a  bird  in  the  ivy  into  a  sleepy  chirp  of 
expostulation. 


312  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

'  Oh,  Mr.  Bethune,  sir ! '  exclaimed  Kitty  when  she 
came  across  the  hall.  '  Mr.  Lorraine  has  been  in  Edin- 
burgh to-day,  and  will  not  return  till  the  late  train. 
Please  come  in,  and  I'll  look  for  Miss  Lorraine.' 

'  Has  Miss  Lorraine  gone  out,  Kitty  ? ' 

'Yes,  sir.  I  saw  her  away  across  the  park,  not 
half  an  hour  ago.  If  you'll  just  come  in,  I'll  soon 
find  her.' 

'  Across  the  park,  did  you  say  ?  I'll  take  a  walk  through 
the  wood,  Kitty.  Never  mind,  thank  you,'  said  James 
Bethune  with  a  nod  and  a  smile.  '  If  I  miss  her,  she 
will  probably  return  before  me.' 

So  he  crossed  the  park  again,  and,  re-entering  the 
woods,  turned  along  the  path  to  the  wishing-well.  How 
long  ago  it  seemed  since  he  had  walked  that  way  with 
Beatrice  Lorraine  !  Looking  back,  he  could  almost  have 
fancied  the  experience  of  that  night  a  dream.  He  was 
thinking  of  it,  recalling  how  she  had  looked  and  spoken, 
for  he  had  never  been  so  near  her  as  then,  when  sud- 
denly he  caught  the  gleam  of  something  white  through 
the  trees.  Two  more  steps,  and  he  saw  the  slight  figure 
of  Beatrice  Lorraine  standing  by  the  wishing-well,  with 
her  arm  leaning  on  the  mossy  ledge  of  rock  which  over- 
hung it,  her  head  down-bent,  as  if  her  eyes  sought  to 
fathom  the  dusky  depths  of  the  water  bubbling  and 
sparkling  over  its  basin  into  the  burn  below.  The 
crackling  of  the  underbrush  beneath  his  tread  startled 
her,  and  she  took  a  hurried  step  forward,  and  peered 
through  the  shadows,  until  she  discerned  the  tall  figure 
approaching  with  no  reluctant  step. 

'  I  hope  I  have  not  startled  you,  Miss  Lorraine,'  he 
said,  raising  his  hat.  '  I  have  been  to  the  house,  and 
Kitty  thought  you  had  come  this  way.  If  I  do  not 
intrude,  will  you  allow  me  to  accompany  you  back  ? ' 


ALL'S  WELL.  313 

'It  is  no  intrusion,'  she  said,  and  her  white  lids 
drooped  over  the  eyes  under  his  earnest  gaze.  '  Why 
have  you  been  so  long  ?  We  have  looked  for  you  every 
day.  Willie  wrote  that  you  had  left  London  more  than 
a  week  ago.' 

'  Yes,  I  have  been  in  Fife  with  my  brother/  he  said 
briefly,  for  his  heart  was  beating,  his  pulses  thrilling, 
so  that  he  could  scarcely  control  himself.  '  And  how  are 
you  ?  Well,  I  hope.' 

'Yes,  thank  you.  I  am  afraid  I  greeted  you 
rather  unceremoniously,'  she  said,  smiling  now,  and 
giving  him  her  hand.  '  You  see  you  startled  me. 
It  is  not  often  I  am  disturbed  at  the  wishing- 
well.' 

'  Then  you  come  often  here  ? ' 

•  '  Yes.  It  is  a  quiet  spot.  I  like  it,'  she  said  quickly. 
'  Have  you  enjoyed  your  holiday  ?  You  were  in  need  of 
it,  Willie  said.' 

'  Yes.  It  has  been  a  hot,  trying  summer,  and  I  have 
been  working  hard.' 

*  In  what  way  ?  For  the  Gazette,  or  have  you  been 
writing  on  your  own  account  ? ' 

1  Very  little  of  that ;  I  have  had  other  work.  Willie 
will  tell  you  of  it.  We  have  been  trying  what  we  can 
for  toilers  less  blessed  than  ourselves :  God  has  given  us 
some  fruit  already.  But  I  made  up  my  mind  to  leave 
the  story  for  Willie  to  tell.  He  will  be  down  whenever 
I  go  back.' 

'  Willie  has  told  us  something  of  it  in  his  letters,  and 
it  made  my  heart  burn.  Oh,  I  could  share  such  work, 
I  am  sure.  My  sympathies  and  prayers  have  always 
been  with  those  who  have  tried  to  reclaim  the  lost.' 
She  spoke  simply,  but  with  a  deep  earnestness,  and  her 
eyes  grew  dim  with  tears, 

*  27 


314  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

'  I  should  not  like  to  see  you  exposed  to  a  tithe  of  the 
risks  we  have  run,'  he  said  quickly. 

'  Why  not  ?  Do  you  think  I  should  not  meet  them 
fearlessly  ?  Do  you  know  I  grow  very  weary  at  times  of 
this  sweet,  quiet,  monotonous  life.  I  wonder  if  it  is 
wrong  to  long  for  the  strife  of  battle  rather  than  the  ease 
of  peace  ?  I  cannot  but  think  that  such  a  life  as  mine 
is  must  foster  selfishness  and  narrow  prejudices.  Indeed, 
I  sometimes  feel  myself  shirking  unpleasant  duties,  and 
then  I  grow  afraid.  Papa  needs  me  yet.  He  is  not 
getting  strong  very  fast ;  but  I  sometimes  think  if  he 
were  strong  he  would  leave  Nethercleugh.  London  has 
a  deep  attraction  for  him  now.' 

James  Bethune  stood  in  silence,  watching  the  ripple  of 
the  burn,  listening  to  its  musical  murmur  as  it  danced 
and  leaped  joyously  in  its  rocky  bed.  His  whole  heart 
was  stirred.  Dared  he  ask  this  woman,  whom  he  loved 
and  reverenced  with  all  the  strength  of  his  true  manhood, 
to  share  the  struggle  with  him  ?  Dared  he  offer  her  such 
things  as  he  had,  asking  her  for  love's  sake  to  come  and 
make  a  home  for  herself  and  for  him  ? — dared  he  do 
it? 

'  How  dark  it  grows  here  ;  let  us  go,'  she  said  presently 
with  a  slight  shiver,  and  drew  her  white  shawl  more 
closely  about  her  shoulders.  He  looked  at  her  then  ;  his 
eyes,  deep-searching  and  keen,  dwelt  yearningly  upon 
her  sweet  face  until  once  more  its  colour  rose.  He  took 
a  step  towards  her  ;  he  touched  her  arm,  his  face  dark 
with  passionate  pain. 

*  Beatrice  !  I  have  little  to  offer  but  my  love.  Of  that 
you  must  know  something  ;  I  cannot  hide  it !  Will  you 
come?' 

She  looked  at  him,  her  breath  came  quick  and  fast, 
but  her  eyes  did  not  falter  in  their  gaze.  It  was  a 


ALL'S  WELL.  315 

moment  of  painful  tension,  almost  of  agony,  when  the 
weal  of  two  lives  was  trembling  in  the  balance. 

'  Above  and  beyond  any  other,  for  all  time,'  she  said 
brokenly  at  last.  '  I  will  try  to  be  worthy.  I ' — 

She  said  no  more,  but  the  folds  of  her  dress  touched 
him ;  she  laid  her  hand  on  his.  And  so  he  took  her, — 
the  woman  whom  God  had  given  him  for  his  wife,  whose 
heart  had  awakened  to  his,  who  loved  him  even  as  he 
loved  her.  I  think  there  are  moments  still  when  men 
and  women  touch  the  gates  of  Eden  ;  when  life  seems  to 
be  a  grander,  nobler,  heavenlier  thing  than  they  have  yet 
imagined  it  to  be.  So  was  it  with  these  two. 

'  It  is  dark  now,  my  darling,  and  I  must  take  you 
home,'  said  James  Bethune  at  length.  '  I  cannot  realize 
that  I  dare  call  you  my  darling  without  reproof.' 

'And  I  cannot  realize  that  I  am  so  blessed,'  she  said,  with 
her  head  upon  his  breast ;  for  she  had  given  herself  to  him 
wholly,  not  seeking  to  hide  or  to  make  little  of  the  love 
which  had  grown  in  her  heart.  Her  self-surrender  was 
characteristic  of  the  woman  who  had  been  earnest  and 
true  in  all  things  since  life's  deeper  meanings  had  dawned 
upon  her  soul.  It  is  not  love,  but  only  one  of  its  many 
counterfeits,  which  has  its  questions  to  ask,  its  conditions 
to  make,  its  reservations  depending  upon  the  treatment  it 
receives.  No ;  love,  thank  God  !  is  something  infinitely 
higher  than  that. 

James  Bethune's  book  is  not  yet  finished  ;  I  know  not, 
indeed,  whether  a  line  of  it  is  written ;  but  I  do  know 
that  the  largeness  of  life  is  preparing  him  to  give  to  the 
world  something  which  will  live  in  the  hearts  and  bear 
fruit  in  the  lives  of  his  fellow-men.  He  has  probed  to 
the  heart  of  things  ;  he  has  been  content  with  no  surface 
knowledge ;  he  has  examined  for  himself  almost  every 


316  THE  GATES  OF  EDEN. 

phase  of  human  life.  He  is  known  for  his  keen  insight 
and  unerring  perceptions,  as  he  is  noted  for  his  wideness 
of  sympathy  and  greatness  of  heart.  It  is  not  for  me 
to  say  here  aught  of  his  work.  Who  can  estimate  the 
good  even  one  earnest  soul,  following  God's  leading,  can 
do  ?  Its  influence  cannot  be  recorded  in  figures  or  words. 
His  wife  is  with  him  in  his  work.  The  one  is  indis- 
pensable to  the  other ;  in  such  marriage  there  can  be  no 
separate  life,  scarcely  a  separate  thought.  It  being  so,  I 
need  not  enlarge  upon  the  happiness  of  their  home.  The 
pity  is  that  such  types  of  what  the  Creator  wishes  and 
intends  human  homes  to  be,  should  be  so  few. 

We  will  leave  them  here,  saying,  '  God  bless  them 
both!' 

Willie  Lorraine,  the  one  son,  dwells  with  his  father  at 
Nethercleugh,  but  does  not  live  an  idle  life.  He  is 
pushing  his  way  forward  as  a  popular  writer,  and  you 
will  find  him  always  on  the  side  of  truth  and  honour 
and  right,  condemning  with  relentless  force  all  opposed 
to  these  three.  So,  beyond  a  doubt,  these  dark  years, 
which  cast  a  shadow  sometimes  yet,  had  their  pur- 
pose to  fulfil  in  him.  The  master  of  Nethercleugh, 
though  in  declining  health,  finds  life  sweetened  by 
his  family  ties,  which  ought  never  to  have  had  their 
broken  links. 

Sandy  Bethune  is  not  now  the  minister  of  Lochbroom, 
but  has  found  a  heavy  city  charga  But  Mary  had  her 
first  experience  of  the  duties  of  a  minister's  wife  in  her 
husband's  first  parish,  where  she  won  the  love  of  all. 
His  only  wonder  now  is,  how  he  could  ever  have  dared 
to  be  ashamed  of  her;  and  that  humbling  memory 
makes  his  care  for  her  very  tender  and  very  encompass- 
ing in  every  way.  And  they  are  very  happy,  and  doing 
a  good  work  where  they  now  dwell. 


ALL'S  WELL.  317 

As  for  Aunt  Susan,  she  is  still  hale  and  hearty  in  the 
cottage  in  the  Lang  Eaw,  and  seems  likely  to  live  as 
long  as  these  worthies  whose  longevity  so  provoked  Peter 
Bethune  on  his  death-bed.  It  is  a  pardonable  boast 
with  her  that  at  seventy-seven  she  went  to  London,  and 
lived  to  set  foot  in  the  Star  again  ;  for  Jamie  himself, 
soon  after  his  marriage,  came  to  fetch  her  ;  and  she  came 
back  just  overflowing  with  her  sight-seeing,  and  full  of 
the  praises  of  her  nephew's  wife,  whom  she  speaks  of 
with  reverential  love  as  '  Mistress  Jeems.' 


GLOSSARY  OF  SCOTCH  WORDS. 


A',  all. 

Div,  do. 

HAE,  have. 

Abee,  be. 

Dochter,  daughter. 

Haen,  had. 

Abune,  above. 

Dowie,  sad. 

Haein,  having. 

Aclae,  to  do. 

Dowg,  dog. 

Hale,  whole. 

Ae,  onlv,  one. 

Dreel,  drill. 

Hantle,  deal. 

Aff,  off." 

Drueken,  drunken. 

Harries,  harrows. 

Ahiut,  behind. 

Dune,  done. 

Hand,  hold. 

Aicht,  eight. 

Haudin,  holding. 

Ain,  own. 
Aince,  once. 

EERIE,  timorous,  afraid. 
Efter  after. 

Hands,  scolds. 
Haverin,  joking. 

Airt,  direction,  course, 
way. 

Eneuch,  enough. 

Heelans,  highlands. 
Heevin,  heaven. 

Ane,  one. 

Held,  head. 

Auld,  old. 

FASUKD,  troubled. 

Hinna,  have  not. 

Ava,  at  all. 

Fauldit,  folded. 

Hoo,  how. 

Awa,  away. 
Ay,  yes.    " 
Aye,  alwavs. 

Faur,  far. 
Faut,  fault. 
Peart,  frightened. 

Houp,  hope. 
Hurl,  ride. 

Fecht,  fight. 

ILKA,  every. 

BAIRN,  child. 
Bane,  bone. 
Bannet,  bonnet. 
Bannock,  cake,  biscuit. 
Ben,  frout,  into  the  room. 

Keck,  most,  greater  part. 
Flyte,  scold. 
Fo'rby,  besides. 
Forebears,  ancestors. 
Forgather,  associate. 

Imphim,  humph. 
Ingle-neuk,  fireside,  chim- 
ney-corner, 
lutae,  into. 
Ither,  other. 

Ben-end,  front-room. 

Forgie,  forgive. 

Billy,  lad. 

Frae,  from. 

KEN,  know. 

Bit,  home. 

Frem,  strange. 

Kent,  known. 

Blate,  bashful. 

Freen,  friend. 

Kist,  chest. 

Blawin,  blowing. 

Freit,  freak. 

Kittle,  wild,  skittish. 

Blink,  smile. 

Fricht,  fright. 

Kye,  cows. 

Fule,  fool. 

Brawly,  well. 

Fyle,  defile. 

LAMMIE,  lamb. 

Breek,  breeches. 

Lane,  alone. 

Brocht,  brought. 

GAED,  went. 

Lave,  love. 

Burn,  stream,  creek. 

Gar,  make. 

Lee,  lie. 

By-ordinar,extraordinary. 

Gaun,  gone. 

Leear,  liar. 

Byre,  stable. 

Gear,  goods. 

Leeved,  lived. 

Gey,  good,  long,  consider- 

Leevin, living. 

CANNY,  good,  well,  gentle. 

able. 

Leuch,  look. 

Canty,  smart,  sharp,merry. 

Geyan,same  as  Gey. 

Likit,  liked. 

Carle,  fellow. 

Gie,  give. 

Lookit,  looked. 

Cauld,  cold. 

Gied,  gave. 

Loon,  rogue,  rascal. 

Certy,  surely,  indeed. 

Gien,  given. 

Lowse,  loose. 

Chiel,  fellow. 

Gin,  again. 

Claes,  clothes. 

Girn,  grin. 

MARROW,  match. 

Clashes,  gossips. 

Gled,  glad. 

Maun,  must. 

Clashin,  gossiping. 

Gliff,  glance. 

Mavises,  thrushes. 

Claverin,  slandering. 

Gloaming,  twilight. 

Meer,  mare. 

Corbies,  crows. 

Gomeril,  fool,  dolt. 

Crack,  talk,  news. 

Goon,  gown. 

NAE,  OR  XA,  No. 

Gowan,  daisy. 

Neebors,  neighbors 

DAE,  do 

Grat,  wept. 

Neepkin,  napkin. 

Daein,  doing. 

Graun,  grand. 

Noo,  now. 

Daft,  mad,  crazy. 

Greeting,  crying,  weeping. 

Dee,  die. 

Grit,  sore. 

()CHT,  ought. 

Deed,  died. 

Grup,  grip. 

Oo,  yes. 

Deid,  dead.^ 

Gump,  swim,  bathe. 

Oor,  our. 

Deidly,  deadly. 

Guid,  good. 

Oot,  out. 

Dinna,  do  not. 

Gysened,  hoopless. 

Ower,  over. 

319 


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